Coming Undone
by Skillzyo
Summary: AU. All Santana wants is some caffeine so she can push through an all-nighter and churn out an analysis of a book she didn't read. She gets more than she bargains for when she visits her neighbors to ask for a cup of coffee.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Glee or any of its characters. I also don't own the lyrics to the song used for the chapter title.

**Author's Note:** Yeah. I know. Yet another side project. I promise I'm working on the next chapter of LBUT though. Look at it this way: At least you have something to read while you wait. Unless you hate this. In that case, then I'm sorry. Also, this shouldn't be too long. Maybe three chapters at the most, but that's subject to change.

**Rating:** R (_mentions of drug use, Santana has a potty mouth, and my OTP takes baths together_. _Possible sexual situations later._)

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><p><strong><span>Part 1:<span> I ain't got no type of drugs, but I got some soda pop**

Fuck cock-sucking balls! I have read the same paragraph three times now, and I still have no idea what I'm reading. This fucking English class can blow me. I grab my phone off the coffee table in front of the couch and slide it open to check the time. Fuck. It's almost nine, which means I only have twelve more hours until the analysis of this book is due, and I can't seem to focus. I groan and toss the phone onto the other end of the couch. Frustrated with my inability to absorb anything from reading, I smack myself in the forehead with the thick paperback hoping to gain some kind of information through osmosis. All I get for my efforts is a headache.

"Shit," I mutter with a shake of my head as I push myself off the couch. It only takes a few seconds to reach the kitchen, where I make a beeline for the coffee pot on the counter. Caffeine is definitely necessary for the all-nighter I am about to pull. Unfortunately, Sam or Puck must have finally finished off the coffee that has been chilling in the pot for the last three days. And of course, neither of them had the brain cells to make more.

"Note to self: It is frowned upon to kill your friends over coffee," I remind myself with a sigh as I open the cupboard above the counter. After shoving aside a bag of sugar and the creamer, I come face to face with a post-it note stuck to the coffee can. My brow furrows and I pull the paper off the tin for a closer look at the chicken-scratch.

"_Satan, ran out of coffee this morning. Me and Puck will buy more when we get back from the campsite_. – _Sam_"

I read the note three more times, hoping I misunderstood it the first time. Maybe it's a code. Those idiots wouldn't leave me without coffee while they spend the weekend getting their bromance on in the woods. When I pull the lid off the coffee can, though, my lip curls into a scowl because Sam's note isn't a cruel joke. All that's left of the one thing that can help me through my paper is the sweet aroma of coffee grounds.

"Fuck it. I am going to murder them both as soon as they walk through that door Sunday morning," I say as I snap the lid back on the can and slam the cupboard shut. I lean my forehead against the cool wood, trying to think of a way to get more coffee. I pull away from the cupboard to search for my wallet and find it buried beneath a pile of bills on the kitchen table. I can't stop the low whine that escapes my throat when I open it and only find two crumpled dollar bills.

Fuck fuckity fuck fuck. First no coffee, now no money to buy more coffee. And I don't know where the fuck my credit card is. The night has certainly taken a turn for the worse. At least, that's what I'm thinking until I glance out the window behind the sink and see the empty parking space in our driveway. Normally, the tenants below us park their car on our side of the duplex, but the empty spot suggests at least one of them has taken the ugly red Bug out for a drive. I've never seen the two girls leave together, so I'm hoping one of them is home as I hurry to another cabinet and pull out a coffee cup.

I rush to the door next to the kitchen that leads to the staircase. My quick footsteps echo against the wooden walls as I take the stairs two at a time. Hopefully they alert anyone below that I'm on my way down so I won't have to wait forever in the stairwell.

When I reach the door that separates no man's land from the other tenants' apartment, I raise my hand to knock, but I hesitate when I remember what time it is. Nine isn't too late to pay your neighbor a visit, right? While I'm debating with myself over knocking, I listen for any signs of life from the other side of the door. I smile when I hear the muffled sound of a television. I rap my knuckles against the barrier and the wood shakes slightly.

I stop after several seconds, a little worried I'll knock the door right off its hinges if I continue, and wrap my arms around myself. I'm wearing a heavy grey hoodie and a pair of black sweatpants, but the stairwell isn't heated, so it's filled with winter air that slips in from beneath the front door. I take a moment to rub some warmth into my arms before I decide to knock again, just in case whoever is inside is ignoring me.

"Come on! I know you're in there. I can hear the TV!" I call out when knocking doesn't work. "Didn't anyone teach you it's rude to ignore people?" I shout before I kick the bottom of the door. I probably shouldn't be the one preaching about the importance of manners, but I just want some coffee, damn it!

I know my shouting pays off when I hear movement over the sound of the television. The smile on my face is short-lived, however, when I realize there is a fifty-fifty chance that the door will be answered by the short, dark-haired girl who likes to talk in paragraphs. Fuck. I pray to whoever is listening that the blonde girl is the one who opens the door, and not the loud brunette. When the door finally squeaks open, my prayers are… sort of answered.

"You're not the dwarf or her keeper," I point out to the girl who answered the door. My eyebrows scrunch together as I study her. She's taller than the blonde who's usually here. Skinnier, too, from what I can see. And I can see a lot, given that she's only wearing a black halter top and underwear.

"Rachel and Quinn aren't here."

Her quiet voice pulls me out of my observations and tugs my attention to her face. Her blonde hair is streaked with purple in several places. Her eyes are a dull blue, and dark bags have collected beneath them. Droplets of sweat cover the pale skin around her eyes, and her lips are chapped. I briefly wonder if Trouty Mouth left any of his lip balm in the bathroom before I remember my reason for knocking.

"I can see that," I respond, and she takes a step back, although she continues to hold onto the door. She sweeps her free arm out, inviting me to come in, and I take a small step forward onto the white carpet of the living room. She closes the door behind me, but continues to cling to the handle. "I was wondering if I could get a cup of coffee grounds," I explain. I hold up the ceramic mug and dangle it from my finger. Her eyes follow the cup as it sways back and forth, and her grip on the door handle tightens. "I can buy you guys some more when my roommates come back."

"Okay," she says in the same quiet voice she greeted me with. She snatches the cup from my hand and I open my mouth to object, but she's already taking slow, unsteady steps toward the kitchen. Instead of following her, I allow my gaze to wander around the living room.

The first thing I notice is the brown pull-out couch placed against the wall closest to the kitchen. The only reason I know it's a pull-out couch is because the bed has, in fact, been pulled out. Several comforters are piled on top of the thin mattress, but I don't see any pillows. A flat screen television hangs from the wall opposite the couch. An infomercial is playing, so I doubt the girl was actually watching it when I knocked. My stomach tightens into a knot when that thought crosses my mind. I probably woke her ass up and, from what I can tell, she really needs the sleep.

The sound of glass shattering against tile pulls my attention from the television to the kitchen, where the stranger kneels by a pile of coffee grounds and shards of what used to be my coffee cup. Her hand hovers over the mess before she curls it into a fist and drops it down to her thigh. I mentally count to twenty, trying not to freak out, before I cover the short distance between the living room and the kitchen. When I crouch beside her, she turns her head away.

"I'm sorry," she says. Her voice cracks in the middle of 'sorry,' and any residual anger I may have had over the broken cup leaves my body with a sigh. I place my hands on her shoulders, but I almost jerk them away when I feel how hot her skin is.

"It's fine. It was an ugly cup anyway," I assure her as I rub my hands along her upper-arms. They're covered in sweat, and the way my hands slide over the slick skin makes my face contort into a grimace. "Are you okay?"

"I'm not contagious," she replies in a shaky voice. I have to lean in to hear her since the answer is muffled by the thick curtain of hair that separates us. My attention is pulled away from the back of her head when my fingers touch the inner elbow of her right arm and she jerks away from me. She tries to cover the area with her left hand, but she isn't fast enough to hide the red scars, and suddenly her behavior makes sense.

"How long has it been?"

"What?"

"I said how long has it been since you shoved a fucking needle in your arm!" I repeat a bit more forcefully as I grab her wrist and give it a tug. She whimpers, and I feel a pang of regret in my chest, but I quickly push it away. "Don't try to play stupid with me. Just answer the damn question."

"Two days," she says in a whisper, but I barely hear the answer. I'm too busy focusing on the limb trembling in my grip. "Two days since I called them to come get me," she explains. By them, I assume she's talking about the hobbit and what's-her-name.

"Fuck. And they left you here by yourself?" She nods her head and I curse under my breath. Who the fuck lets someone detox alone? As if sensing the unspoken question, she finally turns to look at me.

"They had an art showing in Chicago," she says with a nod. The action makes her swallow, and she places her free hand against the side of her head. "I told them my mom would come, but…" She squeezes her eyes shut and turns away. "She said no. She said her daughter died a long time ago. And I don't get it because I'm alive. I don't understand." A low whine interrupts her babbling, followed by a sniffle. "I just want my mom."

Before I can think of a response, she engulfs me in the hottest hug ever, and not in the good way. Her skin is so warm I can feel it through the fabric of my hoodie. I bite my lip as I try to decide what I'm supposed to do with the hot mess in my arms. Shit. Maybe cooling her off will help.

"Do you think you can stand up?" There's a long silence before she shakes her head against my shoulder. Great. At least she's being honest. "Okay, well, I'm going to help you stand and you're going to lead me to the bathroom," I explain. I don't move until I feel her nod. Then I sling her arm around my neck and wrap my own around her waist. I count to three before I lift us both to our feet. She slips sideways when I move my hand from her hip, so I quickly put it back and gently will her to walk.

The journey to the bathroom takes longer than I would have liked, but we eventually make it. I lower her to the floor next to the toilet so I can start running the water for a bath. The water level barely covers my hand when I hear the girl puking.

"Fuck! I put you next to the toilet for a reason!" I turn away from the tub and lift the toilet seat up. Blondie doesn't seem to get the message though, so I grab her by her armpits and pull her over so she can stop throwing up on the floor. Unfortunately, I get caught in the line of fire, and I find myself thankful I wore a hoodie. "Gross," I mutter as I tug the soiled garment off and throw it somewhere it won't be in the way. Of course, it ends up landing in the puke on the floor, but I choke back my disgust so I can help Blondie.

I rub small circles over her back with one hand and brush the sweat-soaked hair out of her face with the other. I occasionally look at the tub to make sure it isn't about to overflow, but most of my attention is focused on the girl with her head hanging over the toilet bowl. By the time she's finished, the tub is half full, so I reach out to turn off the water while keeping one hand on the other girl's back.

"I'm going to put you in the tub, okay?" I receive an answer that sounds close to a yes, so I take that as a good sign. "Then I'm going to get in behind you so you don't drown, alright?" The girl pulls away from me and looks over my outfit before settling her gaze on my face. "My clothes will be fine," I assure her. She seems to accept my answer because she leans against my chest again. I try to forget she just spent the last few minutes vomiting as I stand us both up.

She sways, but I tighten my grip before she can fall. Once I'm sure she's steady, I maneuver her to the tub and help her step into the water. She hisses and jerks away from the tub when her foot touches the lukewarm surface. I shake my head at the action, and gently coax her into the bath. She gasps when she sits down, and her frail body shakes beneath my hands. I make her lay back against the wall while I strip off my t-shirt and sweatpants. I raise an eyebrow when she stares at my almost nude form, and she quickly turns away. I can tell she regrets the movement when she whines and raises a hand to her forehead again.

"I'm coming in now," I warn her before I tilt her forward and slip in behind her. Even through the water, her body is still burning against mine, and I have to fight the urge to pull away from her. I don't know why I'm doing this for a girl I've never met. Maybe it's the future doctor in me. Or maybe it's the good person Sam insists is inside of me, fighting to get out. Whatever the reason is, fifteen minutes drags by, and I'm still soaking in the tub. The girl is sleeping against my chest and I don't want to move her, but she should really be resting in a bed.

"Hey, it's time to get out," I whisper against her ear. She sighs, so I carefully push her forward so I can free my legs. She groans in response to the movement, but I ignore the sound and hook my arms under her armpits again so I can pull her up with me.

For one horrifying second, my foot slips and I'm afraid I'm going kill us both. Fortunately, I manage to catch my balance and stumble out of the tub. It isn't the most graceful exit, but at least we didn't fall. I find two towels hanging from metal hooks on the wall. The one I grab has the name 'Fabray' sewn on the end, but I figure the girl won't mind being wrapped in someone else's towel. Besides, it's better than the one covered in gold stars.

When I turn to face the blonde again, her head is resting against the bathroom counter and her eyes are closed. I drape the towel over her shoulders and help her stand on shaky legs. I lead her out of the bathroom, avoiding the mess she made on the floor, and walk her to the pull-out couch. She's about to lay down on it, but I tug her back when I see how damp the bed is.

"I am not about to let you lay in that after we just took a nice bath together," I explain. "Would one of your friends be okay with you sleeping in their bed?"

"Quinn wouldn't mind," she replies after several seconds tick by. I nod in response before I let my eyes sweep over the living room again. They find what they're searching for in the form of a black duffel bag beneath the television. I let the girl sit on the mattress while I go grab her some new clothes. I end up tossing her a new pair of underwear and a grey tank top.

"Do you mind if I borrow a shirt?" I ask when I remember my own t-shirt probably smells like vomit. She hums in what I assume is approval, so I grab the first one I find. I unclip my bra and let it fall to the floor before I slip the loose t-shirt over my head. When I turn around, the girl's face is bright red and she can't meet my gaze. I roll my eyes and walk back to the mattress so I can help her change. My plan hits a snag, however, when my hand reaches for the hem of her shirt and she jerks away from me. "Let me help you," I say in a soft voice when I see her eyes darting back and forth.

"I can do it," she snaps. I startle when I hear the aggressive tone in her voice. She's been compliant the whole time I've been with her, so the change in attitude catches me off guard. I step back from the mattress and turn away so she can change. I turn back around a few minutes later when I hear her cough.

"Should I help you to your friend's room? Or do you want to do that on your own, too?" I can't stop the agitation from leaking into my voice. I instantly regret the snippy tone when she drops her gaze and stares at the white carpet. "Sorry. Come on."

She lets me help her to Quinn's room, where I lay her down on the clean bed and cover her with two thin sheets. I'm about to go get my sweatpants when her hand grabs mine with strength I'm sure is born from desperation. I place my free hand on top of hers and rub a circle over the skin.

"I'll be back soon, I promise," I assure her. She stares me down for several seconds before releasing me. I give her a thin smile before I leave.

The acrid smell of bile assaults my senses and makes my eyes water as soon as I open the bathroom door. I'm tempted to clean it up later, but I know the longer I leave it, the worse it will be. I sigh, grab the towel covered in stars off its hook, and wipe up the mess. I throw the towel in the tub when I'm done, unsure of where else to put it. I then take off my underwear and hang it from one of the towel hooks before I tug my dry sweatpants on. I grab my ruined hoodie from the floor and throw it in the garbage while I'm in the kitchen.

When I return to Quinn's room, I find the girl curled up under the white comforter, which is the opposite of what she needs. She protests and tries to fight me off when I start to tug the heavy blanket away, but she backs down as soon as I give her a warning glare. After I throw the blanket on the floor, I climb onto the bed and get under the sheets with the blonde. Her body has cooled down since the bath, but it's still too warm for my liking. Maybe I should go get a wet washcloth to put on her. I'm about to put that plan into action when she rolls over and scoots closer to me. Soon, her head is tucked under my chin, which is an impressive feat considering she's taller than me.

"What's your name?" she mumbles against my neck. I try to ignore the way her breath tickles my skin and how I can feel her heart drilling into my ribcage. I focus on the question instead. … Which was what again? Oh, right. My name.

"It's Santana," I reply, and I can feel her smiling against my skin. It's not much, but I can still feel it. I can only guess how much worse she was feeling before I came downstairs, so it surprises me that she still has the energy to smile.

"Thank you, Santana," she whispers. There's a long pause where all I can hear is our breathing, before she says, "My name's Brittany."

"It's nice to meet you, Brittany." The polite response is automatic, but the sentiment behind it isn't forced for once. She chuckles before she shifts onto her back and looks up at me.

"It's nice of you to lie. I don't think throwing up on someone is the best way to make a good first impression."

"Hey. It worked on me." My remark evokes a real laugh that fills the room and makes her shoulders shake. When she laughs, her face transforms. It's more relaxed, and there's a sparkle in those blue eyes that had appeared so dead the first time I saw them. For a second, I am able to see the girl Brittany is supposed to be, and I can't help thinking she's beautiful.

The laughter cuts off when I feel her body tense next to me, and she rolls onto her side. I can hear her grinding her teeth together. I try to help by running my hand over her thin arm. I've read enough health books for my major to know muscle cramps are a large part of withdrawal, but I've never witnessed someone going through detox until now.

"Ouch," she says with a whimper as she leans her back against me. Her body is shaking so hard I'm afraid she's going to make herself sick again, so I slip my arm over her and tug her closer. It takes me a second to notice I can feel her ribs through her tank top. She's way skinnier than I originally thought she was. I snap out of my observations when her voice breaks the silence between us.

"Do you believe people can change?"

The question takes me by surprise. I think it over for a moment, remembering all the ways I've changed since high school. The changes I've made to my life definitely outweigh the things I've kept the same. It's quite possible the girl I was in high school wouldn't recognize the person I am now.

"I like to think so, yes," I finally say with a nod. "Otherwise, what would be the point in doing this to yourself?" My eyes narrow and I pull away so there's a small chasm between our bodies. "You _are_ doing this to yourself, right? You're not just too poor to get more?"

"Don't you think I would have robbed Quinn and Rachel blind by now if that was the problem?" she asks in a small voice, and regret twists my stomach into a knot. "No, this is all me. I just need to know I'm not the only one stupid enough to believe it's possible," she says with a sigh.

I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything. Instead, I move my hand from her stomach and run it through her hair. My hand snags in several places, especially in spots hardened by dried sweat, but it isn't coming away drenched. My hand stills after the fifth knot I untangle.

"If I was still the same person I was in high school, I would have left you here even if I knew what was wrong," I admit. My voice is so quiet I can barely hear myself speaking. It's still difficult for me to reconcile who I was with who I am. She is someone who needs to know, though, just so she can be sure change can be worth it. "I would have yelled at you for breaking the cup. I'd make up some story about it being a family heirloom, passed down from generation to generation, just so you would feel worse. And then I would come back a few days later, demanding you reimburse me."

"That's a lot of trouble for a cup."

"I know. I wasted a lot of energy being angry and making other people feel like shit when I was younger. It was so much easier to deal with anger than the other feelings. At least anger, I could do something about," I explain. My hand starts to smooth out her hair again, and I smile when I feel her body relax against mine. "After I graduated, I realized I had pushed all my real friends away, so when all my fake friends left, I had no one."

"So you changed?" She slowly rolls over to face me after she asks, as if she needs to see my answer to know it's true.

"It took a while, but yeah. I changed," I say with a small smile. "Okay, so I'm still working on being a nicer person, but I like to think I'm a lot better now than I was back then," I amend as my smile transforms into a smirk.

"I'm glad 'now' you found me instead of 'then' you," she whispers into the hollow of my neck. "I like…" Her voice trails off, though, and whatever it is she likes is replaced with a quiet sigh. When I look down, her eyes are closed and she's taking long, even breaths through parted lips.

I wait a moment to see if she's going to wake up, before I slip out of the covers. She whines when I get out of the bed, so I placate her and put the pillow I was using next to her. She burrows her face into it and releases a content sigh. Once I'm sure she's okay, I leave the room and head to the kitchen to search for some aspirin. Or, better yet, caffeine.

Brittany is still asleep when I come back with the garbage can in one hand and a rainbow mug of coffee in the other. If I'm going to spend the rest of my night here, I'm sure as hell going to drink the shit I came down for in the first place.

I set the empty trashcan on the floor and take a seat on the edge of the bed. The blonde sighs and burrows further into the pillow when the mattress sinks, but she doesn't wake. I blow on the coffee before I take a long sip and study the girl who has somehow become my responsibility.

I don't know why I'm still here. I have a book to finish and an analysis to bullshit my way through. I should be focusing on my schoolwork, not some strung-out junkie I just met. The thought of leaving her alone, however, makes my stomach twist. So instead of doing the practical thing, I settle into a cross-legged position and watch over her as I sip my coffee.

The cup is half-empty when Brittany's body jerks, and one of her legs ends up catching me in the shin. I startle, and the remaining contents of the mug spill onto my lap. I swear this girl is going to ruin all of my clothes. A low moan from the head of the bed grabs my attention before I can worry about that thought too much.

"Brittany," I say as I put the empty cup on the floor, "if you need to barf, there's a garbage right next-"

I'm cut off by the sound of her gagging. Yep. She definitely needs to hurl. And fuck, she definitely isn't facing the garbage can. I curse under my breath as I lean forward and roll her over. Just in time, too, because the motion dislodges whatever she has left in her stomach. Apparently, all that's left is mucus. It doesn't surprise me, considering how much she threw up in the bathroom. Still, I hold her hair back until she pulls away from the garbage can and slowly shifts onto her back.

"You didn't-" she starts, but her voice is hoarse from puking, so she turns her head and coughs into the pillow before she tries again. "You didn't have to stay," she says, and her lips curve into a weak smile, "but I'm glad you did."

"I didn't want to leave you here to puke all over your friend's bed," I say with a shrug. My response makes her eyes narrow, but they widen a few seconds later when she looks down at my crotch. Wait. Why is she looking there?

"Did you pee?" Oh. _That's_ why she's looking there.

"No. Some blonde chick made me spill coffee all over my pants when she kicked me," I explain. I receive a blank stare in response. "You kicked me."

"Oh. Sorry." Her face turns pink as she whispers the apology. She bites her lip for a moment before she moves the pillow that covers the other side of the bed. "Could you…" She trails off and looks at the bed instead of me. It's funny how shy she suddenly is about me laying with her. I know what she's trying to ask, though, so I climb over her and crawl under the sheets.

She scoots closer until her arm bumps into mine. She whispers another quiet apology and starts to move away. I grab her wrist before she can get too far, and lay it across my stomach. I trail my finger along the under part of her forearm, getting closer and closer to the scars on her inner elbow with each stroke. Her breath catches when my hand finally touches the first mark.

"That's an old one," she states, as if she's talking about a worn toy. "It's like, three months, I think," she clarifies. She gingerly sits up and the sheets pool around her hips.

I sit up with her, and she holds her arm out to show me the scars up close. Most are no more than a pin prick, especially the recent ones that are still red. They almost look like bug bites. One of the larger circles stands out, however, and my finger traces its raised edges. I look up from the scar to find Brittany watching me through half-closed eyes. She turns away when our gazes meet.

"Please don't ask," she whispers as she pulls her arm out of my grasp and rests it on her lap.

"Give me a good reason not to, and I won't."

"Because I won't be able to do this if I think about why I started in the first place," she responds. Her voice cracks the way it did when she apologized for breaking the cup. It's like she wants to tell me, but she physically can't, and for that, she's sorry. She finally looks at me again as she says, "I promise I'll tell you. I just… I'm not strong enough to think about it right now."

"Another time then," I say as I lay down on my back. She hesitates before she slides back under the sheets with me and rests her head on my pillow, just above my shoulder. I wait for her to get as comfortable as she can under the circumstances before I talk again. "Just so you know, I think you're more than strong enough to do this."

She doesn't ask me how I can possibly think that. She doesn't point out that I just met her. In fact, I'm starting to think she didn't hear me because she doesn't say anything at all. But then her arm slips over my stomach and gently squeezes. It's the last thing I feel before my eyes close and I fall asleep in a stranger's bed next to a girl I barely know.

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> I hope this wasn't a horrible decision and that you all enjoyed it. Thank you for taking the time to read it! I'll have the second part up some time after I update LBUT and On Ice.

Title lyrics taken from _Sex and Drugs_ by **Hyper Crush**


	2. Chapter 2

****Disclaimer:** **I don't own Glee or any of its characters. I also don't own the lyrics to the song used for the chapter title.

**Author's Note:** Ugh. This took longer than I planned. The house I'm living in while up at college is not conducive to writing. Summer break cannot come soon enough. Enough about me though. Here's the chapter.

**Rating:** R (_mentions of drug use, Santana has a potty mouth, and my OTP takes baths together_. _Possible sexual situations later._)

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><p><strong><span>Part 2: It's hard to dance with a devil on your back<span>**

Soft breaths tickle my skin and bring me back to the land of the living. I open my eyes, only to hiss and squeeze them shut again when the light from the ceiling lamp tries to blind me. While I recover from the attack on my eyes, memories of the night before leak through the fog of my half-asleep mind. They seem unreal, but the warmth against my side is the only proof I need to know last night really happened.

I open my eyes again, slowly this time, and give them a moment to adjust to the light. I look down to find Brittany curled up next to me. Her head rests on my shoulder, which explains the puffs of air against the side of my neck, and why I can't feel my left arm. She looks almost healthy when she's asleep. The dark circles beneath her eyes aren't as prominent as they were last night, and her skin isn't burning against mine. I don't want to wake her up, but a cup of coffee is calling my name, and from the feel of the hip bone digging into my side, food is also a necessity.

"Brittany," I whisper, but the blonde is unresponsive. I sigh, and grab her shoulder with my free hand. "Hey," I say as I gently shake her. She protests with a groan, but she slowly blinks her eyes open. I ignore the fact that they seem to be fixated on my lips. "I'm going to make us something to eat, but I need you to move so I can get up."

"Not hungry," Brittany grumbles as her eyes close again.

"Well, you need something. When was the last time you ate?" I run my left hand over her side, but she jerks away from my touch, and turns away so she doesn't have to face me.

"I said I'm not hungry," she repeats, and I roll my eyes at the response before I wiggle out from beneath her and get off the bed. She may not think she's hungry, but her body is practically screaming for some form of nourishment.

"I'll bring you some toast," I tell her as I grab my borrowed mug off the desk next to the bed. I walk out of the bedroom and close the door behind me before she can object.

In the kitchen, I step over the pile of coffee grounds and shards of my old mug to get to the coffee maker, which still has half a pot leftover from last night. After I fill my cup and stick it in the microwave above the stove, I search for a loaf of bread. I'm still looking when the microwave dings.

"Why don't these people have a breadbox?" I mutter to myself as I close the cupboard I've been rummaging through. I look in the fridge, but all I find is a carton of soy milk, half a bag of English muffins, several packages of bacon, and an alternative to deli meat. After a moment of debate over whether or not I should continue my search for the bread, I shrug and pull out the muffins.

While I wait for them to toast, I grab my coffee from the microwave, and lean back against the counter. My thoughts wander to the girl in the bedroom as I take a sip of the bitter drink. Mostly, I think about the circular scars on her arm and the scars I can't see; the ones hidden beneath her skin that probably hurt just as much, if not more than the visible ones. There has to be some reason why she's like this.

"Or maybe I'm thinking too much. Maybe she just woke up one day and decided to find a new way to get high," I say with a sigh just before the muffins pop out of the toaster. I'm about to put them on a folded paper towel, when I hear muffled voices coming from the front door. I look over my shoulder in time to see my neighbors come inside. Apparently, they're too busy putting down their suitcases to notice me.

"See? I told you we shouldn't have trusted her to stay here!" The short, dark-haired girl groans once her luggage is on the floor. Both of them are looking at the vacant, pull-out couch. "We never should have left her by herself. She probably robbed us!" Her eyes widen, and her hands cover her mouth just as a gasp escapes. "What if she stole my trophies and medals?" she asks in a high voice. She turns to the other girl and grabs both of her wrists as she says, "Quinn, she could melt those down and sell the gold for drug money! We need to call the police!"

I roll my eyes at the brunette's dramatic antics as I turn back to the toaster and pull the muffins out of the slots with my free hand.

"Rachel, would you calm down?" the second girl says as she pulls out of Rachel's grasp. "It's not like the cops can give you back your trophies if she's already melted them down," the blonde points out. "Besides," she starts after she pushes the smaller girl away, "she's never stolen from us before. She wouldn't start now." She sighs as she puts her hands on her hips and stares down at the empty bed. "I just wish she would have stayed for once."

"How many times does she have to leave before you stop getting your hopes up?" Rachel asks. "She's never getting better, and by giving her a place to stay, you're just enabling her reckless and, if I may add, stupid actions."

"Look, Berry. You weren't there when I found her! You didn't see what she was like!" Quinn snaps. "She just… looked so broken and lost. I haven't seen her like that in years."

"Maybe I wasn't with you then, but I've been _here_ every time she's asked you for a place to stay, and I hate what it does to you whenever she goes back to whatever alley she spends her days wallowing in," the loudmouth retorts. Her voice is starting to make my head hurt. "Broken or not, she isn't your responsibility and—" She cuts off her sentence with a shriek that makes me cringe.

"Robber!" I hear her yell just before something hard hits me in the lower back, and makes me spill my coffee down the front of my shirt. "Thief!" I barely have time to register what she's saying before something strikes the back of my head.

"Motherfucker!" I hiss as I spin around to face Rachel and Quinn. The brunette is only wearing one sneaker. The other is in her hand, waiting to be thrown. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, you little troll?"

"I… I'm sorry. I thought you were a robber," she stammers as she lowers the shoe. "I-it's a logical reaction, seeing as you don't live down here, so you can't blame me for defending myself," she explains as I rub the back of my head and look down at the floor, where I find a set of keys next to a grey remote.

"Is there a reason you're making a mess in our apartment instead of yours?" Quinn asks with an arched eyebrow.

"Yeah. It's called I came down for a cup of coffee last night, and found a sick girl instead," I reply as I put down the empty coffee cup and lean against the counter again. "Great way to be a friend, leaving her here to fend for herself all weekend. That's a really awesome way to show you care about someone. I should take notes."

"Quinn had an art showing!" Rachel objects since the blonde is too busy staring at the carpet to respond. "She shouldn't have to play babysitter because of Brittany. There are more important things than a girl who refuses to change."

"Is that what they're teaching under bridges now?" I ask. Her jaw drops slightly, but no sound comes out, thank god. "Look, I'm not a very nice person, but even I'm capable of being a better friend than you two."

"She's not _my_ friend," Rachel mutters, but I'm already making my way back to Quinn's bedroom with the English muffins in hand, so I choose to ignore her.

Brittany is still curled up on her side when I walk into the room. Her eyes are red, though, and the edge of the sheet is clenched in a tight fist. She sniffles, and uses the back of her free hand to wipe at her eyes when she sees me.

"Quinn and Rachel are back," I say as I take a seat on the edge of the bed and hold out the muffins to her. She stares at my hand for a moment before releasing a sigh and taking the offered food.

"I heard," she whispers. She takes a bite of the muffin and grimaces. I can't blame her. "Rachel's right, you know. I've never been able to change," she says after she forces herself to swallow. "I shouldn't have called Quinn."

"Hey, that Rachel girl's an idiot. She doesn't know what she's talking about," I assure the blonde. I brush some of her bangs out of her face and, instead of pulling my hand away when I'm done, I run it through some of the tangled locks. I smile when she leans into the touch.

I'm not sure what it is, but there's something about Brittany that makes me want to help her feel better. Maybe it's because I found her in such a vulnerable state, and she trusted me enough to help her. I've never had someone give me that much trust unless they've gotten to know me. It's a nice ego boost, and I kind of like it.

"You can do this, Brittany," I tell her, surprising myself with how much I mean it.

"You don't even know me."

"You're right, I don't," I say with a nod of my head. "But I do know you could have left while Quinn and Rachel were gone. No one would have been here to stop you, but you stayed," I remind her. Then I realize I still have my hand in her hair, and it's no longer moving. "So um… yeah. If you can do that, I believe you can change," I say as I pull my hand away and place it in my lap.

"That was really nice, Santana," she replies with the smallest of smiles. I return it, and the two of us spend the next few moments listening to the hum of electricity coming from the ceiling lamp. Unfortunately, the mood is broken when Rachel's familiar shriek shatters the silence.

"What happened to my towel?" I hear her shout from the bathroom. I smirk as I get up from the bed.

"And that's my cue to leave before your friend kills me."

"Rachel's made it pretty clear she's not my friend," Brittany mutters under her breath.

"Then that's her loss," I tell her. I crouch down in front of her so our eyes meet. "I know this won't be easy for you, but I also know you can do it. You're a lot stronger than Rachel and Quinn give you credit for." I hesitate for a moment before I place my hand on hers. "If you ever need help, or if you just need to get away from the troll, I live right up the stairs."

I know I'm basically giving a stranger permission to visit me whenever, but Brittany's eyes light up for a moment, and I can't bring myself to regret the offer.

"Thank you," she says, her voice cracking.

"Not a problem," I respond as I stand back at my full height. "I'm going to go give Quinn and Rachel some instructions on how to take care of you for the next few days. You just… get better, alright? And don't forget about what I said."

"It's hard to forget the nicest thing someone's ever said to you," she tells me in a soft voice that, for some reason, makes my face heat up and my throat constrict as I walk out of the bedroom.

Rachel's still in the bathroom, cleaning the puke off her towel, but I find Quinn in the living room. She's sitting on the couch's armrest, and her gaze is fixed on the silver picture frame in her hands. She seems lost in thought as her thumb slides over the glass that covers the photograph.

"Do you have a pen and some paper?"

She startles, and drops the picture. I get a glimpse of two blondes in the frame before she picks it back up and puts it on the mattress, face down.

"What for?"

"I was going to leave you with some tips for helping your friend," I reply. "Unless you have another art showing to be at," I add as I cross my arms over my chest. "If that's the case, then I won't waste my time."

"She wasn't supposed to be alone, okay?" Quinn says in a small voice. Her eyes drop down to her hands in her lap as she says, "I shouldn't have believed her when she said her mom would come, but Rachel was practically pushing me out the door."

She picks up the picture frame again, and waves me over. Curiosity gets the better of me. When I reach her side, I look down at the picture and see a younger Quinn with her arms wrapped around a smiling Brittany. The wind must have been blowing when the picture was taken, because their hair is tangled in loose knots. They're so close the purple tips of Brittany's hair are mixing in with Quinn's plain blonde locks. Quinn is placing a kiss on Brittany's cheek, but her lips are just barely touching skin.

"Rachel never met the Brittany I knew. Even when she was faking a smile, she was beautiful," she muses. The comment makes me look closer at the photograph, and I can see the smile doesn't reach Brittany's eyes. Quinn traces a finger over the picture one more time before she clears her throat and puts it back on the bed. "I'll get you some paper," she says as she pushes off from the couch.

She rifles through the denim purse on the floor next to the suitcases, and pulls out a pen and a small notepad. I nod my head in thanks and flip to the first blank sheet I can find.

"Now, she's going to be pretty sore for a while, so painkillers will come in handy," I tell her as I scribble a few notes on the paper. "And make sure she doesn't eat anything too heavy for the next few days. Give her things like plain toast instead." Quinn nods along with my words while she watches me write. "I've got her fever down now, but if it spikes again, make sure you keep her cool and comfortable. Don't pile blankets on her."

"Thanks," she says when I hand her the notepad. She scans over the note and mouths the instructions to herself. "And thank you for staying with her."

"It's no biggie," I say with a shrug, even though I know I pretty much fucked myself over by staying the night instead of going home to work on my book analysis. Luckily, I am the master at getting extensions, especially with pervert professors who have a thing for looking at my chest.

"Anyway, while talking to you has been about as much fun as a lobotomy, I have to get back to my place so I can kill my roommates when they get home," I say to excuse myself when I hear the bathroom door open. I manage to make it into the stairwell just as Rachel walks into the kitchen.

* * *

><p>After my night with Brittany, I spend the next month trying to keep her at the back of my mind. She hasn't come up to my part of the house, though, so I'm pretty sure she's been killed by the dwarf, or Quinn is keeping her hostage. Or she just doesn't want to see me. If that's the case, then whatever. I don't have time to worry about her. I'm not her doctor. I'm not even her friend. Besides, midterms are getting closer, and I need to focus on my classes. That's exactly what I'm doing the afternoon I hear someone knocking at our door.<p>

"Puck, will you get that?" I call from my bedroom as I scribble in my textbook. I pull my head back for a second, and push my glasses back up my nose so I can review the notes I've written in the margin. Then I hear another knock. "Will someone open the damn door? I'm trying to get an education in here!"

When I don't get an answer, I scream into my textbook before I shove my chair away from my desk.

Puck and Sam are in the living room, sitting on the couch with a bag of Cheetos and a two-liter of Coke between them. Both are apparently too immersed in Modern Halo or whatever to hear anything that isn't the sound of machine guns and grenades. They don't even blink when I intentionally walk in front of the television on my way to the kitchen.

"Thanks for nothing," I call over my shoulder. They grunt in response, and I roll my eyes as I open the door. "What do you—"

Seeing Brittany standing in my doorway stops me from finishing that sentence. Her hair hangs loose and falls just past her shoulders. She's wearing a t-shirt with wide black and white stripes, and a pair of faded jeans. It's definitely a step up from the tank top and underwear outfit I met her in a month ago. My eyes flicker to the plate of clumpy cookies she's holding, but the pink arm warmers that cover the skin from her hands to her elbow catch my attention. As much as I don't want to think about it, I can't help but wonder if she's hiding new marks.

"Hey," I greet her as I lean against the door frame.

"Hi," she replies. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other before she thrusts the plate towards me. "I made these to say thank you," she mumbles. She finds something interesting on the floor to stare at while I take the plate from her shaky hands.

I can't quite figure out what kind of cookies they are by looking at them, so I take a bite of one. Pure willpower is the only thing that keeps me from spitting it back out. It tastes like Brittany found a way to bake a sweaty jockstrap into her cookies, but I somehow manage to choke it down

"I'm just going to put these on the counter," I tell her as I take a step back. She waits in the doorway until I motion for her follow. I set the cookies next to the blender, and turn around to lean against the counter while I look her over. The dark circles beneath her eyes are almost gone, and it looks like she's gained a little more weight. I know it isn't much, but she looks better than she did a month ago.

"I didn't know you wore glasses," she remarks, and my face heats up as I quickly take them off and hide them behind me.

"Only when I'm studying," I reply. "Or when I forget to take them off," I mutter under my breath. A small smile tugs at Brittany's lips, but it's gone before I can be sure I'm not seeing things. "Speaking of accessories," I say in an attempt to get the topic off of my imperfect vision, "what's up with the arm gear?"

"Rachel let me borrow them because I kept getting cold," she says. As if she knows what I was thinking earlier, she pushes them down to show me the skin hidden beneath. No new marks.

"I'm surprised the dwarf could bring herself to share," I say after she pulls the sleeves back up.

"Quinn made her do it," she explains with a shrug. I nod my head because that makes more sense. Quinn did seem to be the voice of reason the morning we had our run in. At least, she wasn't the one throwing things at me.

"Who's your new friend, Lopez?" Puck's voice breaks into our conversation as he walks into the kitchen. Brittany ducks her head, and takes a step back from the idiot with the Mohawk. "Sweet! She brought food!" he says, and pushes me away from the counter. He stuffs a cookie in his mouth, only to spit most of it out onto the floor.

"Puck, that's disgusting!"

"Dude, so was that fucking cookie," he argues. He rubs his tongue on the hem of his shirt. I'm pretty sure it's just an excuse to show off his torso. "My grandma cooks better than that, and she's diabetic," he says once he's gotten the taste out of his mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brittany fidgeting while she stares at the floor, so I punch Puck in the arm. "What the fuck was that for?"

"Because you're a moron, idiot!" I hiss before I shove him towards the couch. He glares at me, but he grabs two more cookies and goes back to the living room. I turn back to Brittany, and see that her skin has lost some of its color. "Hey, you okay?"

"I'm fine," she says, but the way her voice cracks leaves me unconvinced. "I just haven't left Quinn's in a while, and it feels weird."

"How long is a while?" I ask. Silence is the only answer I get. "Please tell me you haven't been sitting in that house for a month."

"Okay, I won't tell you," she replies. I narrow my eyes, and her gaze flickers down to her hands. "It feels like I've got this tornado going in my head, okay? And the only thing that can stop it, I don't have," she says. "And I keep thinking about it, and how easily I could get it." She looks up, and her eyes search mine as she asks, "What if I go outside and the urges get worse?"

"So... What ? You're just going to keep yourself locked inside for the rest of your life?" I ask. She replies with a shrug, and I shake my head at that answer. "Wait here," I say before I hurry to my bedroom. I come back with two hoodies and toss her the dark blue one. She stares at it while I put the red one on. "I need coffee, and you're going with me to get it."

"But I don't need anything from the store," she protests. Still, she tugs the sweater over her head. The hem doesn't quite reach her waist, but other than that, it's a nice fit.

"You do need fresh air, though," I point out as I wrap my fingers around her wrist and lead her out the door. I guide her down the stairs, but her steps get slower the closer we get to the bottom. When we reach the front door, she refuses to move altogether. I can feel her arm trembling in my grip, and when I turn to face her, she shakes her head, but doesn't try to pull away. It's like she wants to do this, but everything inside is telling her she can't.

"Look. By staying in here, you're still letting your addiction control you," I tell her. "Is that really what you want?" I slide my hand down to hers and rub my thumb over her smooth skin. Slowly, the trembling in her arm stops. I smile when she takes a deep breath and a step forward. Looks like I'm pretty good at this whole helping thing. My eyes narrow at that thought. Fuck. That means Trouty Mouth is kind of right about me being a semi-decent person. I decide not to tell Sam he was right about something for once as we walk outside.

During the drive to the store, I occasionally glance at Brittany. She's squeezing the seatbelt so hard I'm sure there's going to be a permanent crease afterwards. Her gaze is focused on the dashboard. Puck broke the radio months ago, so the only sound that fills the truck cabin is the sporadic squeak of the wipers flinging snowflakes off the windshield. I can't really complain though. The quiet is kind of peaceful, and I think we both need it. As if to prove me right, her grip on the seatbelt gradually loosens until finally her hands drop onto her lap. It isn't until we're in the convenience store that I finally break the silence between us.

"So how long have you known Quinn and Rachel?" I ask as we walk down the coffee aisle. I glare at a woman who almost runs me over with her cart, and she ducks her head as she walks past us. Even though it's a small store, the whole city seems to come here.

"Quinn tutored me in high school. I wasn't the best student, and she hated trying to teach me, but she didn't mind being my friend," Brittany replies. She scoots closer to me and slips her hand into mine when we have to walk around a large group of teenagers. "She met Rachel when she moved here."

"So you guys aren't from around here?"

"We're from Lima," she says, and I stop in the middle of the aisle.

"No shit? Lima Ohio?" I ask, and, after a moment of confusion, she nods her head. "I lived in Lima Heights Adjacent until I was like, ten! I owned that place."

A small smile creeps onto my face as memories of playground fights and crumbling apartment buildings fill my thoughts. Lima Heights isn't exactly paradise, but some of my best memories are of that hellhole.

"Yeah, my mom moved us there when I was eleven or twelve, after she got a divorce," Brittany says. Her hand tightens around mine on the word 'us,' but she's talking again before I can say anything about it. "Quinn moved there in high school. We were on the Cheerios together, and coach made her my tutor so the teachers couldn't flunk me."

A screeching little boy down the aisle interrupts our conversation, and I decide we can continue it later. Preferably somewhere with less brats. Eager to get out of the store, I grab the nearest can of coffee grounds with my free hand. After some strategic pushing and shoving, Brittany and I get to the front counter, where I have to argue with the cashier over my change. Just because New York's relatively close to Canada doesn't mean I want their coins. He eventually sees things my way when I start screaming at him in Spanish. Aside from learning that Brittany is from Lima, it's the most exciting part of the trip.

When we walk out of the store, the snow is falling in large clumps, so I pull up my hood to stop the flakes from clinging to my hair. Brittany takes her time getting back to the truck. She doesn't seem to mind the white fluff. In fact, there's a ghost of a smile on her face when she climbs into the passenger seat. I decide not to comment on it, afraid it will disappear if I point it out. Instead, I focus on driving through the small blizzard without hitting someone.

When we get back to the duplex, Brittany seems a bit more relaxed. I don't know if she's ready to trust herself on strolls through the park, but I'd say she's made her first baby step in the right direction.

"You didn't have to do this for me, Santana," she tells me as we walk up to the front door of the house.

"No, but I needed coffee, so it's not really that big a deal," I reply with a shrug as I flip through my keys until I get to the one for the front door. I slip it into the lock and, after a quick twist, I push the door open and wave Brittany inside.

"You didn't need to say all those things to make me feel better, though, so thank you," she says before she walks past me.

When we walk into my place, the first thing I notice is that the plate of cookies is missing from the counter. Well, the plate is still there, but the cookies aren't. Knowing Puck and Sam, they probably tried to see who could eat more. On the upside, now I won't have to feel bad for throwing them away.

"So if Quinn met Rachel when she moved here, when did you meet her?" I ask from the counter as I open the coffee tin. Brittany takes a seat at the kitchen table while I dump two scoops into the filter and start the coffeemaker.

"Um… a few years later, I think," she replies. I look over my shoulder when Brittany doesn't say anymore and find her tracing over the flower patterns on my tablecloth with her fingertip. I decide not to press the issue.

Instead, I grab two mugs from the cupboard and set them on the counter before I join her at the table. The only sound between us is the bubbling water coming from the coffeemaker. She looks like she's about to say something, but the door to the stairwell creaks open before she can get any words out.

"Santana! Santana! Santana!"

I barely have time to register the sound of my younger brother's voice before my chair is knocked over by a twelve year old bundle of pure energy. Luckily, the back of the chair hits the floor first, instead of my head.

"What the hell, Diego!" I yell as I shove him off of me. Not long after I free myself from him, I hear the horrifying sound of nails clicking against tile. "Ay! Get your dog away from me!" I shout when I feel slobber on my face. No matter which way I turn my head, it still manages to get his tongue in my mouth. I gag at the thought of where that tongue has been, and give a final shove to the brown blob of fur. "Diego, your dog is fucking disgusting," I mutter once I can finally sit up.

"I could say the same thing about your language, Mija," remarks the woman in the doorway, and I have to resist the urge to groan. This is the last thing I need so close to midterms. And poor Brittany must be scared out of her wits. When I look over at her though, she's petting the damn dog. I roll my eyes and shake my head before I get back on my feet. After I pick up the chair and wipe the wet dog hairs off my hoodie, I turn my attention back to the dark-haired woman, who is pouring herself a cup of _my_ coffee.

"Hola, Mamí."

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading!<p>

Title lyrics for this chapter are from _Shake It Out_ by **Florence + The Machine **(Not necessary to listen to, but I like how it works with the story)**  
><strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** So yeah. This is gonna be longer than the three chapters I originally planned. … I hate myself now. Big thank you to kempokarate, mykindofparty, readyfortigers, and wittpa for letting me bounce ideas off them and for giving their thoughts on certain sections.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Part 3: Help me let go of the chaos around me<span>**

I watch my mother through the steam of my cheap coffee as she taints hers with cream and sugar. What a waste. I take a sip of my own bitter drink and ignore the sound of my brother's idiot dog Charlie tearing through the house like a furry tornado on legs.

"A little warning would have been nice, y'know."

"If you would answer your phone once in a while, you'd have some warning," she replies with a shrug. I'm about to object, but she holds up her hand and says, "I know, I know. Midterms are coming. No phone for you."

My mouth shuts with an audible _click_. As much as it irritates me, my mother knows my habits better than she knows the schedule for her favorite soap opera; and she loves _One Life to Live_ like it's her firstborn. She likes to take advantage of that knowledge, though, and plans her visits around times when I won't be able to physically say no.

"I see you have more than just exams keeping you busy this semester, Mija," she says. Her gaze flickers to the living room, where Brittany and Diego occupy the loveseat. Her dark eyes narrow as she studies the blonde, who is listening to my baby brother blabber on about Charlie's accomplishments. From what I can gather, his natural talent for leaving dead squirrels on the front porch is the current topic.

To her credit, Brittany actually seems interested in the conversation, nodding at all the appropriate parts. It isn't until my mother and I have been staring at her for several minutes that she takes her eyes off my brother to look over. I clear my throat and return my attention to my coffee. Jesus, my face is hot.

"She's not keeping me busy the way you think she is," I mumble into my cup, and my mother raises her eyebrows. "I barely know her, Mamí," I whisper. The last thing I need is Brittany hearing my mother and me discussing my love life, or lack there-of. My mother seems satisfied by the answer. She sets her cup on the table and leans back in her chair.

"It isn't healthy to wrap yourself up in your studies so much, Cariño," she tells me, as if I don't already know. This is the worst part of my mother's visits. She acts like I choose to be single. It's not like I don't go out on dates. They just don't last past the third outing. According to Puck, I have a _prickly_ outside that girls aren't willing to put up with for long-term shit. I guess I can take comfort in the fact that I'm a good fuck, but I doubt my mother wants that much information.

"Whatever happened to that nice Aphasia girl?"

I almost choke to death on my coffee. My eyes water as I try to cough up the hot liquid. Charlie apparently doesn't like the sound I'm making, so he decides to sit in front of me and bark until I stop. My body finally relaxes when I feel someone rub circles on my upper back, and the coffee slides down my throat. I cough a few more times before I look over my shoulder to see Brittany standing behind me. I give her a grateful smile as I flick away the tears that gathered in my eyes. She briefly returns it before she walks back to the living room. Charlie follows and shoves his head under Brittany's hand to get her attention, which she gladly gives.

"Are you alright?" my mother asks once Brittany is back on the loveseat with Diego. I nod and put my cup on the table. It's probably best to keep choking hazards away from me at the moment.

"I'm fine," I promise in a hoarse voice. "I just thought I heard you call Aphasia a nice girl when I _know_ you never liked her."

"Okay, so maybe I was being a little generous when I said nice," she admits before she reaches out and cups my cheek. "But at least when you had her, I didn't have to worry about my sweet baby girl dying all alone."

"I'm so glad you think about me dying. It really warms my heart," I say as I pull my face away from her hand. She tsks and shakes her head at the remark, but doesn't say more. Instead, she tries to subtly stretch and look at Brittany when she thinks I'm not paying attention. "Mamí, there's nothing going on between us! And even if I wanted there to be something, she's not exactly available for any type of relationship right now."

"So you want there to be something?"

"I swear you have the most selective hearing," I mutter as I run my hands through my hair. I debate hitting my head against the table hard enough to knock myself unconscious, but knowing my luck, my mother would call an ambulance and set me up on a blind date with the paramedic. I know she just wants to help me find that special somebody, but I think she needs to accept the fact that I'm not the kind of person a girl wants to spend the rest of her life with.

I take a deep breath and slowly release it so I don't say something I'll regret. Once I've collected myself, I look at my mother and say, "I know you guys didn't come all this way just to talk about my love life, so can we talk about something that isn't about how fucking single I am?"

My mother has the decency to look down as she nods. A few seconds drag by as she tries to come up with a different topic. Thankfully, she decides on school. A weight slips further from my shoulders the deeper we get into our conversation about midterms, papers, and projects. I avoid talking about meeting Brittany. In fact, any time my mother starts to approach that particular topic, I quickly start another story about classes, or tell her about something idiotic Puck and Sam did. I'm in the middle of telling her about the time they put chocolate bars in the microwave without removing the wrappers, when my brother comes over and tugs on the sleeve of my hoodie.

"Can I help you?"

"'Brittany fell asleep on my dog," he whines as he points towards the living room. I turn in my chair to get a better view, and smile when I see the blonde curled up on the loveseat. She's using the hoodie I let her borrow for a pillow and has one arm slung over the chocolate lab. I briefly wonder if I should wake her up so she can go back downstairs, but I don't have the heart to do it.

"Thanks for the heads up, buddy," I tell him. I ruffle his shaggy hair before I get up and go to my room. I come back with a blanket and pillow in hand.

Charlie groans when I lay the blanket over the two of them, but he doesn't move. I gently lift Brittany's head and swap out the hoodie with the pillow. She sighs when I lay her head back down and mutters something in her sleep, but she doesn't wake up. I start to feel a little creepy for watching her sleep, so I go back to the table, where my mother is looking at me funny.

"I thought you said there was nothing there," she says as I sit back down.

"What? There isn't. I just didn't want her to freeze."

"Mija, you tell me you barely know her, yet you let her sleep on your couch. Aphasia never even spent the night," she points out. "I'm sorry if I'm a little confused, but your actions are sending a different message than your words, Santana."

I hate when my mother is right. Then again, it isn't my fault Aphasia never spent the night. She never showed interest in staying longer than it took to put her clothes back on. Of course, I never said I wanted her to stay either.

"Look. Just because I let her crash on the couch for one night doesn't mean I want to make lady babies with her," I point out, which only makes my mother raise her eyebrows in disbelief. "Whatever. I'm done with this conversation." I turn to my brother so I don't have to see the smirk on my mother's face. "How do you feel about getting your ass kicked at Modern Halo, D?"

"It's Modern Warfare, dummy, and the only thing you're going to kick my ass in is dying!" he replies before taking off towards the living room. He unhooks the X-Box from the television, and lugs it to my room so we can play it somewhere we won't wake up Brittany. He may be a brat most of the time, but he's a good kid when it matters most.

"Tell Papí he can have some coffee when he gets here, will ya? I've gotta go teach the little shit some manners," I say before I follow my brother to my room.

Diego's already turning on the console when I walk in. He tosses me a controller and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. I shove him over so I can have the spot with the best view of the television. He retaliates with a pillow to the head, but I snatch it out of his hands before it can make contact, and throw it across the room. When I stick my tongue out, he rolls his eyes and turns his attention to the video game. Soon, our characters are trying to kill each other in an abandoned airport.

"Dude, you suck at this," I say as I throw a grenade at the counter he's crouching behind. Diego curses and tries to sneak out of the simulated bookstore, walking right into my trap. As soon as he steps into the hallway, I get a headshot in and he has to respawn. "How do you even have friends, D? It's definitely not because of your gaming skills."

"How the hell are you so good at this? You didn't even know the game's name!" he yells as he tries to find a class that won't be completely useless against my badassness.

"When are you gonna learn that your sister has many skills?" I say with a chuckle. Actually, I just keep looking at his screen and sneaking up on him. I'm an expert at not getting caught. It's a useful skill I picked up in high school while I was still living in Narnia.

"Whatever," he mutters as he picks a riot shield and some kind of machine gun to go with it. I do him a favor and backstab him so he can respawn with the new weapon set. He calls me a dick and slaps me on the arm. I push him off the bed. He mumbles something under his breath as he gets back up.

"What's that?" I ask with my hand cupped around my ear. "I can't hear you over the lovely sound of me kicking your ass."

"This map is stupid. I'm picking another one," he whines before quitting the level and taking us back to the map selection. After several minutes of scrolling, he chooses Sandtrap. While the map is loading, he makes a comment that throws me off my game for a moment. "Your friend doesn't smile very much."

"Well maybe if you'd stop talking about that flea bag you call a dog, she'd be a little happier."

"She smiles at you, though," he points out.

"Yeah, and that's because I don't talk about an animal whose greatest accomplishment in life is licking his nuts for fifteen minutes straight."

"Shut up. Charlie's awesome," he insists with a laugh. "And I meant she like, really smiles at you, y'know? Like, I would catch her looking at you while you and Mamí were talking, and she would just smile," he says. "It wasn't real big or anything, but it was pretty."

"I think my hermanito has a crush," I say. I laugh when he looks down and shakes his head. I'm sure I'd be able to see a blush if it weren't for the tan skin. "Good, 'cause I think she's a little too old for you."

"Age is just a number," he argues before he focuses on the video game again. While we run around the desert compound, I try not to think about what he said.

It's not like Brittany smiling at me means anything. And what does Diego even know about feelings and shit anyway? He's fucking twelve. I shake my head and return my attention to the game, only to find the little shit has been taking advantage of my wandering thoughts and he's killed me three times in a row.

"That's it. You just woke up Snix," I say as I get my head back in the game.

"I wonder if Snix has a weakness for blonde hair and blue eyes, too," he says with a smirk. The remark makes my hands tighten around the controller. Unfortunately, he notices, and the smirk turns into a grin as he says, "I guess that's a yes."

"You're going down, you smug little punk!" I shout before I grab one of my pillows and smack him over the head with it. He squeals and tries to scramble away, but I grab the back of his shirt with my free hand. After I drop the pillow, I put him in a headlock and wrestle him to the floor.

"I'm gonna tell mom!" he threatens as he tries to wiggle out of my grasp. "Santana, I can't breathe, and you smell!"

"Oh, you did not just say that, you little brat." I tighten my hold until, finally, he says uncle. "Told you you woke up Snix," I say after I shove him away. He glares at me while he fixes his hair and catches his breath.

"Snix is a jerk," he pouts as he gets to his feet, "and I'm done playing with you. You cheat and get mad when I find a way to win," he says and crosses his arms over his chest before he storms out of my room. I roll my eyes at the childish behavior before I stand up and turn the console off.

I follow him to the kitchen, and see my father has finally made it to the house. His coat is still damp, and I can see snowflakes in his greying hair. I greet him with a kiss to the cheek, and he grunts in response as he sips gas station coffee from a styrofoam cup.

"You could have had some of mine," I say as I look over at my mom, who shrugs in response.

"Didn't want to waste the money I spent on this," he replies in a gruff voice before he gulps down the rest of the coffee. He grimaces at the aftertaste of the cheap drink, but doesn't complain. Instead, he lets his gaze wander to the girl sleeping in the living room. I feel my face heat up when he turns back to me. "Did you plan on sharing the loveseat with your girlfriend? Because your mother and I can let you have your room if—"

"Honey, Santana has made it quite clear to me that Brittany isn't _that_ kind of friend," my mother interrupts with a pat on his hand before he can get any further. I mentally thank the lord, because I don't want to know how my father was going to finish that sentence. Sometimes my parents are a little _too_ supportive of my sexuality.

"Yeah, she's just a regular friend," I tell him with a smile. "And I don't think I can fit since Dogzilla took it over, so I was gonna sleep on the couch."

"Well, as long as we aren't being an inconvenience, Mija," my father says with a nod as he gets up from the table. He stretches and, after several cracks from his back, he holds his hand out to my mother and helps her out of her chair. "We're going to head to bed. I had a long flight, and I doubt the drive was any better," he says before wrapping me in a tight hug and kissing the crown of my head. "We'll catch up tomorrow, alright?"

"Sounds good," I say with a nod. I pull out of his arms so he can lead my mother to the bedroom. I'd be a little worried about what my parents might do in my bed if it weren't for the fact that my brother is going to be in there with them later.

"Sorry, D, but I think I'm going to follow their lead. It's been a long day," I tell Diego, who is still sitting at the table, kicking his legs back and forth to entertain himself. He looks up from the tablecloth at the sound of my voice, but his hopeful smile turns into a frown when he registers what I said.

"Fine. You old people are boring anyway," he huffs as he scoots his chair away from the table and gets up. He starts to walk across the kitchen, but stops at the edge of the tile and looks back at me. "Can I go see if Puck and Sam are still up?"

"I won't stop you," I say as I walk over to the living room closet to grab a spare blanket.

A few hours later, I'm still trying to fall asleep. It's not that the couch is uncomfortable. I'm just used to sleeping on my bed, where I don't have to worry about rolling off the edge every five seconds. I sigh as I shift onto my back for the fifth time, and stare at the ceiling. I start to count the tiny cracks in the wood in an attempt to fall asleep. I lose count at two hundred and seventy nine when I hear a quiet whimper from across the room.

"Brittany?" The only response I get is another tiny whimper. "Brittany, are you alright?" I ask as I tug my blanket off and sit up. This time I don't get an answer, so I go to the loveseat to check on the other girl.

It takes me a moment to realize she's still asleep. Charlie is doing his best to calm her down, nudging his nose against her chin. When I reach out to wake her, though, the dog growls and bares his teeth.

"I'm her friend, idiot," I hiss at him. This time when I reach out, I grab Charlie's collar and pull him down to the floor. As sweet as it is that my brother's dog thinks he's Brittany's protector, I don't need him trying to bite my fingers off while I try to help her. Once I'm sure Charlie isn't going to attack me, I take a seat on the edge of the loveseat and place my hand on Brittany's shoulder. She jerks beneath the touch, but her eyes stay shut.

"Brittany, you need to wake up," I say in a voice just above a whisper as I gently shake her. "Brittany!"

She finally snaps into a sitting position, and just barely misses knocking her forehead against mine. Her chest heaves as she looks around, no doubt trying to figure out where the hell she is. I squeeze her shoulder, which gets her to look at me. Even in the dim moonlight, I can see the way her eyes dart back and forth. When they finally lock onto mine, however, she visibly relaxes.

"Hey," I whisper with a half smile once her breath slows. I brush some of the hair out of her face as I say, "You scared me for a second there."

"I'm sorry," she says and looks down at her lap.

"It's okay. You looked pretty scared yourself," I assure her. The truth is, she still seems pretty frightened. "Is everything alright?"

"No," she murmurs as she shakes her head against my hand. When she looks at me again, it's almost like I'm staring at the same girl I found a month ago. I start to wonder if this is the first time she's woken up like this. "I just can't stop thinking, San," she admits. "Even when I'm sleeping, all these thoughts sneak into my head, and I just want them to go away because it hurts to think about them." Something that sounds like a choked sob escapes her throat. "It hurts, San, and it doesn't go away."

I don't know what else to do, so I gently guide Brittany's head to my chest and wrap her in a tight hug. It doesn't feel like she's crying. There's no wet spot forming on my t-shirt anyway. Her body just shakes against mine. I run my fingers through her hair and make soft shushing noises against her ear, trying my best to provide some form of comfort; to remind her she isn't alone.

This isn't some sickness I can cure, and it isn't a physical pain that I can mend with a brace or pill. It's a hurt much deeper than muscle or bone, and I'm not qualified to fix it. All I can do is hold her until it passes.

We stay in that position until the trembling gradually stops. Once she finally calms down, she sighs, and readjusts so her ear is pressed against my chest. The sound of our breathing fills the room. Hers is quick and occasionally interrupted by a hiccup.

"First I throw up on you, and now this happens," she says. "You're probably starting to think I don't like you or something."

"Yeah, you're pretty good at messing up first and second impressions," I chuckle. "If it makes you feel any better, Diego thinks you're pretty great."

"Oh he does, huh?" she asks, and I nod in response. "Well, he's a nice kid, so you should let him know I think he's pretty awesome, too," she says. There's a moment of silence. Then she wraps her arms around my waist. "His sister is pretty nice, too," she whispers against my chest.

"I think most people prefer the word 'bitch'," I tell her as I pull out of the embrace and stand up. I can feel her gaze following me as I go to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of leftover coffee. "Do you want some?" I ask. I look over my shoulder to see her shaking her head.

"I don't like it," she says as she pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her chin in between them. I shrug, and put my cup in the microwave. A few minutes later, I come back to the living room with two mugs. One is my coffee, the other is plain hot chocolate for Brittany. I blow on the drink before I hold it out to her. Her eyebrows scrunch together, but she takes the offered cup.

"It used to make me feel better when I was a kid," I explain as I sit down beside her. "Before I developed a taste for this shit anyway. I'm pretty sure if you stuck a needle in me, you'd get coffee instead of blood," I say, and she quietly laughs into her cup. I nurse the drink in my hand while I watch her. With her knees tucked against her chest, the pink armwarmers, and the way her eyes close slightly as she sips her hot chocolate, she reminds me of a kid.

"So, have you told Quinn about these nightmares? Or is this the first time you've had them?" I ask, shattering the moment between us.

Brittany's eyes drop down to the hot chocolate. She stares into it, as if it can give her the answer I'm looking for. Finally, she sighs and shakes her head.

"She's already been so nice, letting me stay for so long. I didn't want to tell her about them," she says as she runs her finger along the rim of the cup. "I've had them since high school. I got used to them when I was younger," she admits with a sigh. "I had no way to make them stop, so I just… I put up with them. But they kept getting worse, y'know?" I nod and take a sip of my coffee. It's the only thing I can do to stop myself from speaking up. "When I started using, I didn't have to sleep as much. And whenever I did, I didn't have nightmares, or dreams, or anything." She takes a shaky breath before she brings herself to look at me. "Can we talk about this later?"

The question reminds me of the request she made in Quinn's bedroom. She had seemed so fragile, as if talking about herself would ultimately make her break. It isn't much different from how she is now. A month may have gone by, but she's still so close to shattering. Yet she's putting the decision in my hands. All I have to do is ask, and she would tell me everything.

"It can wait," I say, and Brittany sighs in relief. "Anyway, it's late. I'm going back to the couch," I tell her as I stand up.

I take a second to finish off the last of my coffee before I grab Brittany's half-finished, lukewarm chocolate from her and take the cups to the kitchen. After I drop them in the sink and almost trip over Charlie, I go back to the couch and try to get comfortable. It sounds like Brittany is doing the same thing. I can hear the loveseat creaking as she tosses and turns. When the sounds finally stop, I assume she's asleep. A few minutes later though, it feels like someone is watching me. I slowly open my eyes, and have to bite back a scream when I see Brittany standing over me.

"What the fuck, Brittany?" I ask once my heart has slowed to a manageable level. She chews her lower lip and looks down at the floor. "What is it?" I rephrase in a softer voice.

"I was wondering if um… I just…" I prop my head up and stare at her as she fights to find the right words. "Could I sleep on the couch with you?" she manages to say in a tiny voice. I raise my eyebrows and look down at the small amount of space left on my impromptu bed. Then I give her long frame a once-over. She must notice the look, because she quickly adds, "I won't take up much room, I promise."

"Fine, but this isn't going to become a regular thing," I reply as I lift the edge of the comforter. "What are you doing?" I ask when she gets under the blanket and starts climbing over me. "Ow! Brittany, that's a bone you're pushing on!" I hiss when her hand presses on my side. She mumbles an apology and I roll my eyes. "You made that a lot harder than it needed to be," I tell her once she's settled behind me.

"My bad," she mumbles.

"Now remember. This isn't going to happen all the time," I tell her as my eyes start to close. "I'm not your personal teddy bear, okay?"

"Got it," she says, but her arm slips over my side and pulls me closer anyway. "You'd make a really good one, though," she whispers, and her breath tickles my ear.

"Don't go around telling people that."

"I won't," she promises. There's a long pause before she says, "Goodnight, Santana," but I pretend I'm already sleeping. I wait until I feel her breathing even out before I mumble a quick, "Goodnight, Brittany," and fall asleep for real.

* * *

><p>It's far too early in the morning when I hear a knock at the door. I groan into the armrest of the couch and try to block out the sound. Unfortunately, whoever is banging away doesn't care about my sleep schedule because it just gets louder. Soon, Charlie's obnoxious barking joins the knocking.<p>

"Calm your tits!" I shout as I extract myself from Brittany's grasp. I fight off a yawn and half-heartedly run a hand through my bedhead on the way to the kitchen. I pull Charlie out of the way and shoo him into the living room. When I open the door and find a blonde waiting in the stairwell, I get a sense of deja-vu. "Where's your pet troll?"

"Not that it's any of your business," Quinn starts in a low voice, "but _Rachel_ is at an audition."

"I'm sure she'll make a wonderful addition to the munchkins off Broadway," I say with a smirk. Before she can respond, I ask, "Now why are you trying to break down my door at such an ungodly hour?"

"I just wanted to ask if you've seen Brittany," she says. "I know you're not exactly best friends, but she came up here last night, and she never came back."

"So you're asking me where she is _now_?" I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the doorframe. "Why didn't you, I dunno, come and ask last night if you were so worried about her?" Quinn lowers her gaze to the floor. I let her squirm for a few more seconds before I tell her, "Brittany's fine. She fell asleep on the couch last night and I didn't want to wake her up."

"And you didn't think to let us know?" she asks. Despite the irritation in her voice, her body visibly relaxes.

"I'm sorry, but when did it become my job to keep track of your friends for you?" I ask. "If you were really worried about where Brittany was, you wouldn't have waited so long to come looking for her."

"Don't talk to me like I don't care about her!" Quinn shouts with a raised hand. For a moment, I think she's going to slap me, but she curls it into a fist and drops it back down to her side.

"Then fucking act like you give a shit," I say. "Don't just be there for her when it's convenient for you. She doesn't need a part-time friend."

"And what do you know about her needs? Do you really think after spending one night with her, you're an expert on Brittany?" she asks. The glare she is directing towards me is pretty impressive, but I grew up in a house run by my abuela. The look Quinn is giving me has about the intensity of a spork compared to hers.

"What I know is that she's trying to change, but her best friend keeps treating her like she's still a drug addict," I tell her. She opens her mouth to object, but no sound comes out. I take advantage of her silence. "Change isn't easy, and you're just making it harder for her." The blonde's body slumps as the anger leaves her. "Go home, Quinn. I'll make sure she gets back safe and sound when she wakes up."

"You _just_ told me I need to start acting like a friend."

"Yeah, and you can start by not waking her up at," I glance over my shoulder to see the clock on the microwave, "eight in the morning," I tell her as I turn back to face the blonde. "I plan to slash your tires for waking me up so fucking early by the way."

"I'm sorry, okay?" she says with a sigh, and I do a victory dance in my head. It's cut short when Quinn talks again. "Will you just let her know I was here when she wakes up?"

"I think I can handle that," I promise her with a nod. She gives me a forced smile in response before she turns to go downstairs. I close the door on her retreating form and go back to the living room.

Charlie has taken my spot on the couch, so I have to drag him off before I can get back underneath the blanket. I shift so my back is pressed against Brittany's chest again. Once I'm settled, Brittany's arm ends up on my side, and her hand seeks out mine beneath the blanket. I decide to help her out when it starts to wander a little too far south. She sighs when our fingers intertwine, and I end up falling asleep with my hand still clasped in hers.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Why do I always make them fall asleep together? Ugh. They're too fuckin' cute. Also, I'm sorry if there was too much of Santana's family, but I was trying to show that side of her, I guess. Plus, Diego was fun. Thank you all for reading and blowing up my email with Favorites, Alerts, and Reviews. You're all wonderful.

Chapter title is from the song _Ave Mary A_ by **P!nk**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the wait. After reading a bunch of really good fics on here, I started to feel like a Sugar Motta in a world of Rachel Berrys. Anyway, here you go!

* * *

><p><strong>Part 4: Have to stand up to be stronger<strong>

The smoke detector shrieks in the kitchen. I groan and pull the blanket over my head to block out the noise, but the smell of burnt bacon worms its way through the fabric. My nose crinkles and I turn onto my stomach so I can bury my face into my pillow. My brow furrows against the smooth fabric, however, when I realize there's something off about the couch. It takes several seconds for my brain to catch up to what the rest of my body already knows. Brittany's gone.

I push myself up and the blanket slips from my head down to my shoulders, revealing a tangled mess of hair. I look over the back of the couch and find Brittany and my mother flapping their arms beneath the screaming device on the ceiling. Brittany's height makes her much more effective at chasing the smoke away. The corners of my lips twitch as a smile threatens to appear. My mother's eyes lock with mine and she raises an eyebrow. I force the smile to turn into a scowl.

"It's good to see you are capable of waking up before noon, Santana," my mother says once the noise cuts off. She walks back to the stove and pulls shriveled strips of black bacon from one of the pans. The clinking sound they make when they hit the plate makes Brittany blush and stare at the floor. "Now you can come set the table for this… meal… your friend helped me prepare."

Brittany shifts her gaze from the floor to me when she hears my mother call her my friend. I almost miss it, but she sucks in a breath and holds it, as if she's waiting for me to deny the friendship. Her eyes brighten when the denial never comes.

"I don't see why we can't just eat in the living room," I mutter as I throw off the blanket and get up. My mother glares at me, but I ignore the look in favor of stretching my arms over my head. While I stretch and fight back a yawn, my eyes scan the room for my elusive hairbrush. I find it on the floor, buried beneath the pile of video game cases next to the television. Once my hair has been somewhat tamed and the brush has been put away, I start to set the table while Brittany and my mother carry over the platters of food. By the time I place the last fork, the boys are shuffling out of their bedrooms in sweats and old t-shirts.

Sam's shaggy hair sticks out in every direction. He tries to smooth the unruly locks with his hands as he takes a seat at the end of the table. Puck sneaks a piece of bacon off the plate before he sits next to Sam. He tries to shove a strip in the blonde boy's mouth, but Sam knocks his hand away before staring down at his lap. Judging by the grin on his face, he is most likely reading a text from his girlfriend. My father walks out of my bedroom with Diego hanging from his neck like a human tie. He tugs and kicks at the larger man, trying to pull him down to the floor. I chuckle at the sight of the small boy's futile attempts. The determined look on his face is replaced with a pout when our father peels him off his torso and sets him in the chair next to Mamí's.

I'm about to sit down next to Diego when I see Brittany at the edge of the kitchen with her back pressed against the wall. Her eyes are wide, taking in every tiny detail of the scene at the breakfast table. She scoots along the wall towards the living room when I approach her and shakes her head at my offered hand.

"I should probably get back to Quinn's," she says with a shrug. "I didn't really mean to fall asleep here. She might be worried and I don't want her to call the police or—"

"Hey, it's fine. She stopped by this morning," I reply. She blinks in response, obviously not expecting that bit of information. "I let her know you were here so she wouldn't freak out. It won't kill her if you stay for breakfast." She still seems reluctant, but a smirk appears on my face as I say, "Come on. I've seen what kind of food Quinn and the munchkin have stashed in their refrigerator. Unless you're a vegan, I'm guessing you'll like this way more."

She looks down at the floor and uses her foot to trace a pattern on the linoleum as she says, "But they're your family and I'm not."

"You helped make this, dear. You're going to help us eat it," my mother insists before I can argue with the blonde. Brittany looks up from the floor and stares back at my mother, who, despite the demanding tone of her voice, has a smile on her face. "Then you are going to sit with me and laugh at Santana and the boys when they have to do clean up."

A collective groan fills the dining room. The sound makes Brittany smile, however, and she finally takes my hand. I give it a quick squeeze before I lead her to the table. She takes a seat next to Diego, who can't keep the grin off his face when she scoots her chair closer to his to make room for me.

Plates pass from one person to another, each one on a journey to my mother at the end of the table. When Brittany gets hers back, she stares at the mountain of food in front of her. Even I blink at the pile on her plate.

"What the hell, Mamí? Are you trying to fatten her up for slaughter or something?" I ask as I push some of Brittany's scrambled eggs around with my fork. Her nose scrunches when the eggs end up in the pool of white gravy that takes up half the plate.

"Hey, if she doesn't want it, I'll take it," Puck says as he reaches across the table.

"Noah Puckerman, if you touch that plate you _will_ lose a finger," my mother snaps at him. He slowly retracts his hand and returns his attention to his own plate as he mumbles to himself. Once Brittany's food is no longer in danger of being snatched up by the bottomless pit, my mother turns to the blonde and gives her another soft smile. "You don't have to eat it all, dear. You just looked… hungry."

I know it's not the word she wants to use, but my mother is not the type of person to come out and say someone looks too skinny. That's more my grandma's territory. If Brittany catches the underlying meaning of my mother's words, she doesn't show it. Instead, she shrugs and starts eating.

"Those are some lovely arm-warmers, Brittany," my mother says halfway through the meal, interrupting the sound of silverware clinking against ceramic. Brittany looks up from her plate, which she hasn't made a dent in. "I could never get my Santanita to wear pink," she muses. My fork stops halfway to my mouth when I hear my name. "I remember when we were getting her ready for her aunt's wedding. She started crying because we forced her into a pink dress."

"Mom," I hiss when I feel my cheeks start to burn, "I was like, eight. I didn't want to wear a dress."

"Sweetie, you were fourteen. You threw your flowers at your father when he came to see how you looked," she says, ruining my attempt to save my dignity. I huff at the reminder and start to shovel more food into my mouth. Maybe the sound of my chewing can block out the sound of my mother. "I swear the only time she willingly wore the color was when she volunteered at the hospital."

"Mamí! She doesn't want to hear about that!" I say through a mouthful of biscuits and gravy.

"Sorry, Santana. I couldn't hear you through the food stuck in your mouth," my mother teases before she continues with her plan to embarrass me. "It was more of a candy-cane stripper outfit than a nurse outfit."

"Can we not talk about this anymore?" My father, thankfully, interrupts. "I don't like thinking about the way half of my staff ogled my teenage daughter."

"Fine," my mother huffs before stabbing a piece of sausage with her fork. "Since I'm no longer allowed to share about my own daughter, why don't you tell us something about yourself, Brittany? Santana has been a little lacking in the details."

"What do you want to know?"

"How did you two meet?" My mother asks as she places her elbows on the table and leans forward. Everyone else at the table shifts their focus to the blonde as well. My stomach twists into a knot at the thought of the impending conversation. I can't imagine how Brittany feels. "Was it during a class you have together?"

"Um… Not exactly."

"Really, Mari? Does she look like she belongs in Santana's classes?"

I freeze at my father's comment. I'm not really surprised by the remark, but I had been hoping we would be able to get through breakfast without him judging her. And he wonders where I get my bad attitude from. I look over to see if Brittany heard the comment and frown when I find her staring at her lap and fidgeting.

"Well, if you aren't in medicine, what _is_ your major, honey?" my mother asks in a voice much more inviting than my father's.

"I don't have one," Brittany admits, although it looks more like she's talking to her legs than my mother.

"Oh. Well, it's okay to not know what you want to do yet. I didn't declare my major until I was a sophomore. Then I kept changing it anyway so not knowing what you want to do is nothing to be ashamed of. You still have time to—"

"I couldn't go to college," Brittany blurts out, which makes the older woman stop rambling. She looks up from her lap just in time to see my father raise his eyebrows, as if to say 'I told you so.' Brittany must understand the meaning behind the expression because she pushes her chair back harder than necessary as she stands up and says in a shaky voice, "I should really go back to Quinn's now."

"Brittany," I call after her, but she ignores me as she hurries through the door that leads to the stairs. I glare at my father before I get up to follow her.

The door slams shut behind me when I step into the stairwell. I catch a glimpse of blonde hair turning the corner and hurry to catch up with the fleeing girl. I call her name as I take the steps two at a time, only to have her ignore me. I curse under my breath and quicken my pace to catch up to her.

"Will you just wait a second?" I yell down the stairs when she reaches the landing. To my surprise, she listens. "Jesus, you're fast," I say when I finally reach the last step and stand beside her. She doesn't answer. Instead, she wraps her arms around herself and stares at the wall so she doesn't have to look at me. Guilt claws at my insides. I can't help but hate myself for letting this happen. I know what my father is like. I should have put a stop to the conversation when Brittany started to look uncomfortable, or before my mother could push the issue. "I'm sorry," I say with a sigh. "My dad shouldn't have acted like that. He judges people way too fast."

"But he was right, Santana. He knew I didn't belong just by looking at me," she says. She frees one of her hands and wipes at her eyes before she turns her head to look at me. "I know I should have left this morning, but your mom and Diego were so nice to me and you've been like, the sweetest person ever since we met, even though I broke your coffee cup and puked all over you." She looks down at her hands, and her fingers start to fidget as she says, "But I'm not good enough. Your dad figured it out in like, five seconds."

"Brittany, I'm going to tell you something important, so I want you to pay close attention," I say. I place my hands on her shoulders and take a step forward so she has to look at me. I want to tell her she belongs because _I_ want her to stay, but the words stick in my throat. Every person I've ever asked to stay has walked away. I don't want that to happen with Brittany. Not when I still have so much to learn about her.

After three days, I already know the important things, like how she's brave enough to face her fears, or how she lets herself feel a little too much. I want to know the little things, like what her favorite season is, or which part of the day she likes best. I can't learn those things if I scare her away, so I think of something else to say.

"Puck's going to eat the rest of your breakfast if you don't come back upstairs with me."

Brittany's nose crinkles in response. I lower my hands from her shoulders and stare at the floor because those words aren't close to what I want to say. The sound of her laughter, however, makes me look up again. It's the second time I've seen her laugh and, even with the unshed tears in her eyes, she's just as beautiful now as she was the first time. The sound is infectious and I smile along with her.

After Brittany's laughter dies down and leaves a soft smile in its place, she slips her hand into mine and rubs small circles over my skin with her thumb.

"Do you think maybe when I'm ready to talk to you about myself you'll be ready to tell me what you really wanted to say?"

"What makes you think that isn't what I wanted to say?" I ask with a scowl, angry at myself for being so transparent.

"I dunno. It just seemed like you were thinking for a long time," she says with a shrug. She pulls her hand out of mine and lets it hang by her side. I'm surprised to find I miss the warmth of the touch, but I refrain from reaching out to get it back.

"Look, if you want to go back to Quinn's, I won't stop you," I say to change the subject. "I just want you to know before you go that I'm not my dad. I don't care if you're in college or not. I just care about you—er your… food." I cringe at the sound of my slip up. I know Brittany heard me because the smile on her face morphs into a grin.

"You really are sweet, Santana, even if you try to hide it," she tells me. I hate the way her words make my cheeks burn. Aside from my mother, she's the only person to ever call me sweet. And it took my mother years to start calling me something besides selfish. "I guess I could go stop Puck from making himself sick, if you really care that much."

"I do," I say with a nod before I start back up the stairs at a much safer pace than when I had come down them. Brittany stays close behind me and lets me go through the door first.

The kitchen is empty when we step back into the apartment. The sound of gunfire makes me peek in the living room. Sam, Puck, and Diego are on the couch with X-box controllers in their hands and Charlie is sprawled out in the middle of the living room floor. There's no visible sign of my parents, but I can hear my mother's voice coming from my bedroom. Judging by the way she's shouting in Spanish, she isn't very happy with my father.

I smirk at that thought before I lead Brittany further inside. After I pull her leftover breakfast out of the microwave, we go to the living room and watch the boys kill each other from the safety of the loveseat. When I finally hear my bedroom door slam shut, my mother is the only one who comes out. She makes me scoot towards Brittany so she can fit on the loveseat with us.

"Your father has decided to spend the morning pouting in your room, Santana," she says once she's comfortable. Brittany frowns, but my mother reaches over to pat her on the knee. "Don't think too much about it, honey. If he wants to miss out on getting to know such a sweet girl, it's his loss," she assures her. I give my mother a grateful smile before returning my attention to the television.

After Brittany finally finishes what she can of her breakfast, she reluctantly says her goodbyes to the boys and my mother, giving each one of them a handshake. I walk her to the door before my mother can force her into one of her awkward embraces.

"Thank you, Santana," she says. She pulls me close to her and wraps her arms around me before I can ask what she's thanking me for. It takes a second for me to get over the shock of the hug, but once I do, I wrap my arms around her waist and return it. "Thank you for letting me be part of your family today," she whispers in my ear before she pulls away and hurries out the door for the second time. When I return to the living room, my mother has a knowing smile on her face.

"Shut up," I huff as I take a seat beside her.

"I didn't say a thing."

* * *

><p>I spend the rest of the weekend playing catch-up with my family. My heart breaks a little when I learn Diego has failed to make the basketball team once again. I know he wants to play, but his short stature makes it difficult for him to compete with the taller boys. My mother informs me that my father performed a successful open-heart surgery on some bigwig in Dayton. He shrugs off her praise, but I know he's proud of himself. My father and I avoid talking about Brittany. We both know talking about her will only cause a fight. My mother, on the other hand, constantly asks about her whenever we're alone together. I can only answer her questions with a shrug. She seems to accept that I can't talk about Brittany and doesn't push for answers I can't give her. Unfortunately, as much as I love my family, their impromptu visit has put me way behind in my study schedule and my nerves are starting to fray.<p>

After we say our goodbyes Sunday afternoon, I shut the front door to the duplex and press my forehead against the cool wood. It doesn't do much to ease my worries about my exams, but it feels nice. I groan when I think about the books upstairs waiting for me to plow through them. The sound of someone shouting pulls me out of my thoughts. When I look over my shoulder, I catch Brittany slowly backing out of Quinn and Rachel's apartment. The door shuts with a soft click and she breathes a sigh of relief. She turns around and smiles when her eyes meet mine. I return it before I ask if I should call the cops.

"Just in case they murder each other, I mean."

"They should be fine," she says with a shrug. "And if they do kill each other, that means more space for me." She cringes when something thuds against the wall. "I think Rachel just threw her brush."

"That does seem to be her go-to attack method," I say. I rub the back of my head when I think about the keys the troll threw at me a month before. "What the hell are they even arguing about?"

"Rachel's boyfriend," Brittany replies as she takes a seat on the stairs. "Rachel wants him to move in with them."

"I take it Quinn isn't a fan of the jolly giant?" I ask. I had met the guy once the day we moved in. His dopey smile may have been endearing to Rachel, but to me it just looked like he had gas.

"That's a nice way to put it," she says. The door to Quinn and Rachel's place opens before Brittany can elaborate. The shorter blonde stands in the doorway with her upper half still inside as she shouts at Rachel.

"Fine. Call Finn since you obviously don't care that you aren't the only one who lives here!" She slams the door shut and marches over to Brittany, who yelps in surprise when she grabs her by the arm and pulls her up. "Come on. We're getting your stuff," she orders the taller girl. "If that stupid oaf gets to move in here, then you should be able to move in, too."

"Quinn," Brittany hisses as she tries to tug her arm away, but the shorter blonde ignores her. "Quinn, we can't do that today," she says. "Listen to me! We can't go back right now. Please don't make me go back."

"Hey!" I snap as I step away from the front door and grab Quinn's shoulder. She turns to glare at me and I notice her eyes are red and puffy.

"What?" She practically barks the word at me. "What advice do you have for me this time, Santana? You're obviously the expert when it comes to life. So please, impart some of your wisdom. I've been dying to hear more of it."

"First of all, Goldilocks, I don't appreciate the snark so if you could kindly shove it up your ass, that would be great," I tell her. I pull my hand off her shoulder and cross my arms over my chest as I say, "Second, Brittany obviously doesn't want to go wherever it is you're trying to take her, which you would know if you were paying her any attention."

Quinn finally takes the time to look at Brittany, who is staring at the hand wrapped around her bicep. She slowly releases the death grip and Brittany quickly brings her own hand up to hide the red marks Quinn's fingers left behind.

"I'm sorry, Britt," she whispers. "I wasn't thinking."

"S'okay."

"No it isn't. I let Rachel get to me and I took it out on you," Quinn says as she starts to pace across the foyer. "She's just doesn't know how frustrating she is! How can she expect me to be happy about Finn moving in here when she knows, she _knows_, how I feel?" Brittany watches the shorter blonde with a small frown on her face. "Why does she always choose him?" She halts her footsteps once she is in front of Brittany again. She seems to have deflated during her rant. "What makes him so much better than me?" she chokes out before the tears start to fall.

I feel like a third wheel as I watch Brittany wrap the shorter blonde in a hug. She runs her hand over Quinn's back as she makes soft shushing noises in her ear. I shift my weight as I try not to interrupt the moment. Luckily, Quinn seems to remember her and Brittany aren't the only two people in the stairwell. She pulls away from Brittany and wipes at her eyes with the palm of her hand.

"I just can't be around her right now, Britt," she quietly admits.

"I know, but we can't… we can't go to my apartment," Brittany reminds her. She reaches out to tuck a strand of Quinn's hair back as she says, "Can't we just go out for ice cream or something?"

Quinn and I both chuckle at the suggestion. Quinn pulls Brittany's hand down and holds it in her own. Once again I feel like I'm intruding on a private moment. I also feel a spark of jealousy in the pit of my stomach that I can't explain. It's probably just because I've never seen this side of Brittany. That has to be it.

"It's a little cold for ice cream," the shorter blonde says as she stares at their joined hands. "Besides, I kind of thought you'd be happy about finally getting all your stuff here. I know I've been busy lately, but we can do it now."

"And I told you, we can't do it today," Brittany reminds her. She lowers her voice and whispers, "Rick might be there. You know how he is."

"He's a punk."

"Besides, your 'bug won't hold all of my stuff," Brittany points out. Quinn narrows her eyes and releases Brittany's hand. "Quinn—"

"Doesn't your _new_ best friend have a truck?" the shorter blonde asks and I resist the urge to smack the sneer off her face.

"Don't bring Santana in to this."

"Santana is right here and can speak for herself, thank you very much," I interrupt. Two blonde heads turn in my direction at the same time. "How about you guys don't talk about me like I'm not here, hm?" I suggest. Brittany has the decency to blush and look at the floor while Quinn rolls her eyes.

"Look. Brittany needs to get her stuff. If she puts it off any longer, she won't have any stuff to get because her asshole roommate will have sold everything," Quinn explains. "And as she has so kindly pointed out, my Volkswagen is too small to bring it all back."

"So you guys want to use my truck?"

"No!" Brittany says. "What _I_ want is to stay here and continue the Woody the Woodpecker marathon I was enjoying before Rachel opened her big mouth."

"And what _I _want," Quinn interjects, "is to know you're serious about this new leaf you're trying to turn. Is that too much to ask?"

"I've been clean a month, Quinn," the taller blonde snaps. "What more do you want from me? Tell me, and I'll do it." Brittany's lower lip starts to quiver as she says, "Please just tell me what I have to do to prove I'm changing and I'll do it. I promise I'll do it."

"Get your stuff," Quinn says in a soft voice. She puts a hand on Brittany's shoulder and leans in closer. "Show me that you can go back. That it isn't too much for you to handle."

Brittany doesn't respond verbally. Instead, she nods her head and pulls away. She looks at me with a question in her eyes. I mentally sigh because I know what she's asking and there's something about her that makes it impossible for me to say no. It could be the lurking guilt I still have over how my father treated her Saturday morning. Or it could be the way she looks at me. As if she completely trusts me and always will.

"Okay, okay. Just let me grab my jacket and the keys," I say with a roll of my eyes before I push past the two blondes and head up the stairs. It'd be nice if my mind would stop providing the imaginary sound of a whip every time I take a step.

* * *

><p>The ride to Brittany's old studio apartment is… close. Brittany's elbow digs into my side every time I turn or stop or breathe. Quinn drums her finger against the door while she stares out the window. She occasionally checks her phone, only to slide it back in her pocket with a sigh a few seconds later. The troll must be giving her the silent treatment. Brittany keeps playing with the radio dials even though knows they don't work. I figure it's because of her nerves so I refrain from snapping at her. I settle for tightening my grip on the steering wheel instead.<p>

Thirty minutes and several wrong turns later, the buildings start to become far more dilapidated than the ones I'm used to seeing. It's my first time in the upper part of Manhattan. For once, I'm grateful my truck is a piece of shit. Not only does it help us blend in, but it also means less of a chance that someone will try to jack it while we're inside. At least, that's what I tell myself as I make sure my doors are locked.

"Please tell me this is some kind of shortcut to your place, Brittany."

"Sorry, Santana. This is it," Quinn says with a shake of her head. "Take a right at the next light and the building will be the second one on the right," Quinn tells me since Brittany has fallen silent. I nod so she knows I heard and she goes back to checking her phone. I'd probably find her actions more amusing if I weren't so focused on calming my heartbeat. Lima Heights Adjacent isn't the best place to grow up, but it might as well be Beverly Hills compared to this place.

"This was the only place I could afford," Brittany quietly admits with a shrug after I make the turn Quinn mentioned. "Quinn wasn't very happy about it either."

"Because you were living in the fucking ghetto when you could have been living with me."

"I'm sure Rachel would have been thrilled to have me there."

"Rachel can kiss my ass for all I care," Quinn mumbles as I pull up to the apartment and park the truck next to the sidewalk. "Besides, none of this would have happened if you had just moved in with me in the first place. No Brett. No Rick. No drugs."

Brittany looks like she has something to say, but she keeps it to herself and an uncomfortable silence fills the truck. It takes me a moment to notice the truck is still running.

"Let's just get this over with, huh?" Quinn says once I cut the engine. Brittany squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath before she nods her head. Quinn rests her hand on Brittany's knee, as if doing so will transfer her strength to the other girl. "You can do this," she says before she opens the passenger door and hops out.

"Yeah…" Brittany whispers, but she doesn't seem half as confident as Quinn. Still, she slides out of the truck. I double check my doors before I climb out as well. I join up with the other two girls and we walk towards the apartment while I wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> This was originally supposed to be longer but it didn't seem to work well. Meet Brittany's old roommates next chapter. I can't promise you'll like them. There will also be some familiar faces showing up next chapter that you actually might like so you have that to look forward to. I know I'm excited for it. Thank you to kempokarate and mykindofparty for giving feedback whenever I message you guys sections, which is like all the time. And thank you to everyone for all the hits, favorites, reviews, and alerts. You all are awesome.

Chapter title is from the song _Pale_ by **Within Temptation**. It's a very pretty song that I highly recommend.

**PS:** I just thought I'd let you guys know Faberry will not be endgame in this since I always see it the way I wrote it here: Quinn loves Rachel, but Rachel loves Finn.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own Glee.  
><strong>Warning:<strong> There's a bit of violence in this chapter. Not a whole lot and nothing too graphic, but it's there.

* * *

><p><strong>Part 5: <span>The closer I get to feeling, the further that I'm feeling from alright<span>**

Brittany's studio apartment is less of an apartment and more of a large room with a small kitchen and an even smaller bathroom. There are only two cots against the right wall. One is unmade and the covers are down far enough to reveal the mattress beneath. My stomach turns when my eyes land on the yellow stains that mar the faded white fabric. At least, I assume the mattress had been white at some point. The other cot looks like it hasn't been touched since Brittany left. A brown dresser with six drawers stands between them. A diagonal line of blue and red Rangers jerseys hang from hooks on the opposite wall, each one signed. Several pucks encased in glass line a shelf near the ceiling.

My nose scrunches when the oppressive smell of body odor hits me. I'm not sure if it's coming from the sea of clothes on the floor or the scrawny redhead curled up on the futon in the middle of the room. Brittany seems more relaxed than she was in the car, so I assume the guy watching television isn't the one Brittany and Quinn have been worrying about.

"Don't worry about clothes, Britt. We can buy more," Quinn says as she closes the door behind us. She checks to make sure it's locked before she turns and says, "Just grab the important stuff and we'll get the hell out of here."

I probably should have stayed in the truck. It's not like I know what belongs to Brittany and what doesn't. Plus, the idea of taking another step into the room makes my stomach twist. I don't understand how someone can live in this pit. I risk a glance at Brittany. There's a faraway look in her eyes as she stares across the room. I don't know if she's remembering her life in the studio or if she's trying to pretend she isn't really here.

"Brittany, come on," I say as I slip my hand into hers and give it a gentle squeeze. She jerks out of her trance and looks down at our joined hands. Her eyes narrow, as if she's trying to remember when that happened. Then a smile tugs at the corner of her lips. She squeezes back before she pulls me towards the kitchen. Quinn mutters something about boxes and leaves us so she can dig through the closet.

"Hey, Brett," Brittany says with a wave as we pass the futon. The pile of blankets shifts for several seconds before the freckled face of a young man peeks out. It takes a moment, but he eventually lifts his head from the pillow and stares at Brittany and me. His eyes are a glassy brown. One is surrounded by a yellow bruise. His red hair looks like it hasn't been washed in weeks. The putrid aroma emanating from the couch overpowers my senses and makes my eyes water.

"Yooo, Britty," he greets her. The lopsided smile on his face reveals his, thankfully, white teeth. He may not know how to use the shower, but at least he knows what a toothbrush is. "I haven't seen you in like…," The greaseball's brow furrows, "Has it been four or five days?"

"A month, but who's keeping track?" Brittany answers with a shrug, and the crease in the redhead's brow deepens. "Don't think about it too much," she says in a soft voice, like she understands where he's coming from. I roll my eyes. Of course she understands. She has probably been this guy on more than one occasion. "Go back to sleep, Brett. We're just grabbing some stuff and heading out. I'll leave the TV."

He still has the confused look on his face, but he does as she says and lies back down. Once his breathing evens out, Brittany gently tugs on my hand. She leads me to the kitchen where dirty plates and silverware fill the sink. Several pots and pans obscure the countertop from view. My nose scrunches and my stomach threatens to rebel when I look inside a pot and discover something fuzzy growing on the sides.

"Looks like someone forgot to pay the maid this week," I muse as I step back from the counter. I frown when I see my breath condensate before my eyes. "And the heating bill," I mutter. I hug myself and rub my arms in an attempt to keep the chill out, but the frigid air still slips under the edges of my coat. I can already feel the goosebumps forming. Brittany blushes and ducks her head.

"Sorry," she mumbles.

"Whatever," I say with a shrug. "Can we just get this over with before my lunch decides to join forces with this hot mess?"

"My thoughts exactly." Quinn's voice causes my heart to leap into my throat. Judging by Brittany's small squeak, I'm not the only one who forgot the other blonde was with us. Once my heart slows down to a normal rhythm, I glare at Quinn over the stack of empty boxes in her arms. I'm not sure if I should be disappointed or angry when she ignores it. Instead, she looks from me to Brittany several times and arches an eyebrow. "I could always come back when you two are done sharing your moment," she suggests as she sets her cargo on the floor.

"We weren't sharing shit," I insist. Quinn rolls her eyes at the denial, but she keeps her thoughts to herself. "So what the hell is even salvageable in here?" I use the tip of my finger to raise the edge of one of the cleaner looking plates. I breathe a sigh of relief when nothing crawls out from beneath it.

"The microwave and toaster are hers," the shorter blonde says. "The rest of this mess," she waves her hand towards the dishes piled in the sink, "can continue to rot."

"Can't we just leave those here?" Brittany's voice is quiet when she finally speaks up. "You guys already have them. Why do you need mine?"

"Britt,_ I_ don't need them. You do. For money." Brittany stares at Quinn with a blank expression on her face, as if she is speaking a foreign language. "Or, you can keep them at my place and take them with you when you move out," Quinn says as she reaches over the cluttered counter to unplug the microwave. I cringe when her elbow knocks two pans off the counter and they hit the floor with a loud clang.

Brittany's eyebrows knit together as she watches her clean up the mess. Quinn seems oblivious to her best friend's expression, however, so I take a step closer and nudge her hand with my own. She smiles at the offer and doesn't hesitate to intertwine her fingers with mine. Her hand is warmer than mine, but I can feel some heat rising to the surface of my skin to combine with hers.

"You know what? Do whatever you want with them, Brittany," Quinn says as she places the pans back on the pile of pots. One threatens to tip over again, but she shifts it into a wedged position so it sticks. "Throw them out a window or chuck them off a bridge. It doesn't matter as long as Rick the Dick doesn't get the chance to sell them."

"Fine," Brittany finally whispers. She reaches for the toaster with her free hand, but Quinn swats it away.

"I'll handle the kitchen," she insists. She waves her hand towards the dresser and the cots as she says, "Santana can help you pack up the important stuff. I'll help when I'm done here."

"As you command, Captain Quinn," I say with a mock, two-finger salute. Quinn rolls her eyes. Before I can respond with the middle finger, Brittany pulls me towards the large dresser in the living space.

"I'd say sit on the bed, but I don't know how clean it is anymore," she says as she kneels on the floor and pulls the last drawer of the dresser open. I look over her shoulder, but only get a glimpse of sweaters and t-shirts before she looks back. "I can share the floor if you don't want to stand. I'm not sure how long we'll be here."

I take her up on the offer. I accidentally bump her shoulder as I lower myself to the cold, grey linoleum. Brittany doesn't seem to mind. I'm not even sure she noticed. She's so focused on digging through old clothes, a stampede could come through the apartment and she wouldn't know.

A few minutes later, she sighs and shuts it without pulling anything out. She moves on to the ones above it, but her shoulders slump every time she searches a drawer, only to come away empty handed. I watch from the floor as she slams the top drawer and sinks back down. She worries her lower lip for a moment before she sighs, opens the last drawer, and looks through it again. I glimpse the silver corner of a picture frame when she pushes aside a pair of sweatpants. She must miss it, though, because she starts to dig through the other side.

"Wait." Her hands stop and she watches as I pull the picture out of the drawer. "Is this what you were looking for?" She shakes her head, but there's a small smile on her face. She takes it out of my hand and holds it out so we both can see it. "Is that you?" I point to the smiling blonde in pigtails standing in front of an older woman in a blue dress and a large man in a dark suit. She can't be older than eight or nine, but there's an even smaller girl in her arms. Brittany nods and traces her finger over the glass.

"That's Ashley," Brittany says when her finger stops on the other little girl, whose hair is a shade darker than hers. She doesn't have freckles either, whereas I can still see a light dusting of them on Brittany's face whenever I look closely. "I was trying to find her bracelet, but I think Rick… Well, it's not here anymore," she says with a sigh. She sets the picture beside her before she digs in her pocket and pulls out a worn, leather wallet. There's no money inside, but there is another, smaller photograph that she places in my hand.

White lines from being crumpled too many times mar the surface of the picture, but I can still make out Brittany on the left and Ashley on the right. Both are several years older than they were in the family portrait. Brittany has her arm slung over Ashley's shoulder and the younger girl seems to be leaning into the one-armed hug. The smile on Brittany's face is wider than I've ever seen.

"I'm sure she won't mind that you lost her bracelet," I say as I give her back the picture. Brittany's hand trembles as she takes it from me. Instead of putting it away, she stares down at the two smiling girls and rubs her thumb over her sister's face.

"I won't ever see her again." She says it so quietly the words are almost swallowed by the background noise of the television. Her hold tightens on the photograph and my stomach drops when I finally put two and two together.

"Shit! I'm so sorry, Brittany. I shouldn't have said that."

"You didn't know," she says with a shrug. She shakes her head and slips the picture back into her pocket.

We sit in silence together, my unasked questions hovering between us. I want to know what happened, but the other times I've questioned her about her past, she has gently turned me down with a promise to tell me later. I can only imagine I will get the same response if I ask about her sister, so I simply leave the topic alone and hope she'll tell me when she's ready.

Brittany goes back to digging through her drawers and I go back to waiting for some kind of answer to my questions while I study the enigma in front of me. When it comes to emotions, she's an open book. But she keeps her past hidden behind walls higher than the ones I had back in high school. The only way to get to that information is to navigate the labyrinth. The fact that she is willing to show me the pictures of Ashley and her family, however, makes me think I'm closer and closer to discovering the answers in the middle of the maze.

"Hey, I brought you guys some boxes so you can actually put stuff—" Quinn stops when she spots the picture of Brittany and her family on the floor. Her hazel eyes narrow. "You're not really bringing that one with you, are you?"

"It's the only one I have of all of us together."

"Britt…" Quinn sets the boxes down before she kneels down on the other side of Brittany. She places a hand against the middle of Brittany's back and leans her head against the taller girl's shoulder. "Just don't look at it too much, alright?" Brittany nods her head and Quinn places a chaste kiss against her temple. "Good girl," she says as she stands up."Now, will you be okay up here on your own? I need Santana's help carrying some stuff outside."

After Brittany gives the okay, Quinn tugs on my arm. I jerk away from her hand and stand on my own. I don't know what makes her think she has the right to touch me, but she's going to learn just how much I dislike being manhandled if she tries it again. She picks up the box with the kitchen appliances inside and shoves it into my arms. I close my eyes, count to ten, and remind myself that she's Brittany's best friend before I follow her to the front door. At least she opens it for me.

"How the fuck did I get stuck as your pack mule?" I ask once we're a safe distance down the hall. My words bounce off the peeling, grey walls and fill the corridor. Quinn rolls her eyes and takes the box out of my arms.

"You have such a way with words. No wonder Brittany can't stop talking about you," she says once we reach the door to the stairwell. She waits for me to open it and, after a few seconds of debating whether or not I want to help her, I comply. As she passes by, what she said sinks in and my brow furrows.

"She talks about me?"

"You're pretty much her favorite topic. She wanted to invite you to dinner every day last month, but Rachel isn't your biggest fan. And don't even get me started on yesterday afternoon." Quinn stops on the fifth step and readjusts her grip on the box before she turns to face me. "Look, I don't know what's going on between the two of you, but I do know that Britt doesn't say much. So if she thinks you're special enough to talk about, then congratulations. Don't ruin it."

"Nothing's going on between us," I say, but warmth blooms in my chest at the thought of Brittany talking about me. It's nice to know someone thinks I'm worth sharing. Quinn raises an eyebrow. "We're just friends!"

"Well, whatever you are, don't hurt her, okay? As annoying as it is to hear about you all the time, it's nice to see her smile," she says. She starts down the stairs again, leaving me to process what she said.

Brittany talks about me. Brittany smiles when talks about me. Brittany wants me to come to dinner. Brittany wants to be around me. That last fact alone is more than I can say about the majority of women I date. In fact, that's more than I can say about the majority of my friends. I tuck the information away as I finally start to follow Quinn down the slick, metal steps.

I'm surprised to find her waiting for me at the landing. Then I see some woman with brunette curls and a leather jacket leaning against the railing in front of her and I realize she's not waiting for me at all. Quinn must hear me approach though, because she looks over her shoulder. Her cheeks redden slightly before she turns back to the stranger. She says something I can't hear and the brunette nods and starts up the stairs again, a box of her own in her arms. There's a smirk on her face when she passes me. I wait until the stranger is further up the stairs before I approach Quinn, who has a slip of paper in her hands.

"What the hell was that?"

"It was nothing," she says as she slips the paper into the pocket of her jacket. I catch a glimpse of a number written on the edge. I raise an eyebrow and she rolls her eyes at me. "I mean it. It was nothing."

"Really? 'Cause it looked like you were getting your flirt on."

"You may need to get your eyes checked then because the only one I flirt with is back at the house." Quinn pushes past me and shoves the front door open with her side. I follow, but immediately regret the decision when the cold air bites into my skin. The sun is already starting to sink, taking all of its warmth with it. I breathe on my hands as I follow Quinn to my truck. I pull down the tailgate so she can climb into the truck bed. While she situates the box, my thoughts dart back to something that has been bugging me since I first met Brittany.

"You're Brittany's best friend, right?" She nods and steps back to examine her positioning of the box, which I think is pretty ridiculous since we'll probably have to move it again when we get everything out here. "Then why didn't you take her to rehab or something when she called you?"

Quinn's head whips around so fast I can hear the sound of the joints in her neck crack. "Are you saying I wasn't good enough to help her?"

"Excuse me, but you weren't even there when she really needed your help." She draws her mouth into a thin line since she can't argue with me. "But that's not why I'm asking. I'm asking because they have the resources to make it easier on people. The way Brittany did it… You didn't see her the night I met her."

"And you didn't see her the night I picked her up, okay?" Quinn snaps. Her hands tighten into fists and she looks down at the truck bed. "I begged her to let me take her to a hospital. To let me get her some help. But she wouldn't let me."

"You had the car, Quinn! You were the one in control of where you were going and instead of taking her for help you took her to your fucking house!"

"Because at least that way there was a slight chance I knew where she was! If I had taken her to rehab she would have checked herself out and disappeared." She wraps her arms around herself and sinks down. "Don't tell me I didn't help her. Don't question our friendship because I was afraid of losing her again." She chokes out a laugh as she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "But I might as well be losing her to you. She talks to you more than she ever talked to me."

I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to say to that. It's not like I'm trying to steal Brittany from her. Instead of trying to placate her with words, I huff and climb into the back of the truck, careful not to hit my head on the topper, and offer Quinn my hand. She looks at it for several seconds before she accepts the help with a sigh. I don't apologize for questioning her motives, but I do tell her that her make-up has started to smear. She sniffles and wipes the mascara and eyeliner off. Once I let her know she's good to go, we head back to the apartment building and try not to acknowledge the fact that we're acting civil towards one another.

When we get back to Brittany's apartment, three of the boxes are already filled. One is just a collection of CD's. Another has a boombox and an alarm clock shoved in it, along with bathroom necessities. The last one contains furry hats of several shapes and sizes. She's trying to squeeze a large stuffed animal into it as well, but the grey blob of fluff refuses to cooperate. She looks up from the task at hand when she hears the door shut and stands up when she sees Quinn. She hurries to the other blonde's side and tucks a strand of hair behind Quinn's ear as she asks what's wrong.

"Nothing. The wind just made my eyes water," Quinn says with a shake of her head. Brittany doesn't look like she believes her, but she drops her hand. She gives the smaller blonde a soft smile before she lifts up the stuffed animal. It's a giant grey cat that looks like it may have eaten a smaller plush cat.

"I found Lord Tubbington." Brittany makes the stuffed cat nuzzle Quinn's cheek and fakes a purring noise. "Hey, Quinn. I missed you. Brittany kept me locked away in her dresser way too long. It was stuffy in there and she didn't even give me any cigarettes." Quinn and I chuckle at the high-pitched voice Brittany gives the cat. We laugh even harder when she glares at the stuffed animal and uses her free hand to push it away. "Don't listen to him. He's a big liar and doesn't need cigarettes anyway."

Just when I think she's about to continue with the impromptu skit, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Brittany's eyes widen and she drops Lord Tubbington as she takes a step back. Quinn and I turn around, only to come face-to-face with a redhead much bigger than the one on the futon. His arms are crossed over his chest, hiding the logo on his hockey jersey. Too bad he can't hide the ugly mullet on his head.

"Don't stop on my account, Britty." He leans his shoulder against the side of the door and smirks at the three of us as he says, "I was enjoying the show."

Quinn pulls me further into the room with her so we're standing beside Brittany, who has suddenly found the floor extremely interesting. My skin prickles when his eyes rake over me. The urge to take a bath is stronger than ever. I didn't even feel this disgusted when I was around Brett. Then again, Brett wasn't so blatantly trying to undress me with his eyes.

"It's nice to see Quinn again, but why haven't you introduced me to your new friend yet, Brittany?" He steps further into the apartment and his eyes land on the boxes that cover Brittany's bed. His eyes harden as the smirk on his face transforms into a scowl. "What the fuck is this shit? You finally show up after a month and you're already packing to leave again?" Brittany flinches at his loud voice. Brett sits up from his spot on the futon to see what's going on, but he quickly ducks back down when he sees the other man, who is quickly approaching the three of us. "Were you just going to fucking leave without telling me?"

"She doesn't owe you an explanation, Rick."

"Stay out of this, blondie. This is none of your business," he snarls before he grabs Brittany by the upper arm. She yelps when he jerks her towards him, and anger bubbles in my chest. "Besides, Britty here owes me more than you'll ever know."

The way he leers at her makes my stomach twist. I step forward so I am chin to chest with him. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brittany shaking her head. Her eyes are practically pleading with me to stay out of it, but I'm not going to stand around and watch him bully her. "She doesn't owe you jack shit, asshole, so let her go before I bust your nuts."

"Look J-Lo, I'm all for equality of the sexes so I will hit a bitch if you don't back the fuck off."

"And you think I won't?" I raise an eyebrow and cock my head to the side as I say, "See, I'm from a place called Lima Heights Adjacent and it's on the wrong side—" I have to step back from a wild punch before I can finish. My heart leaps into my throat. That Lima Heights Adjacent thing usually works. I don't have much time to worry about it. Rick shoves Brittany to the ground and pushes me into Quinn, who stumbles into Brittany's cot.

"All I'm asking is for her to pay what she owes. Who do you think got stuck with the bitch's part of the rent when she left, huh?"

"That's not true." Brittany pulls herself up to her knees and takes a deep breath before she says, "I left it on the counter for you. I know I did." Her voice shakes and she can't look him in the eyes, but the fact that's she's strong enough to speak up makes a proud smile tug on my lips. "And… and you sold my bracelet. That should have been more than enough."

"I think you're forgetting what else you were supposed to pay me for, Britty," he says before he crouches in front of her. He roughly grabs her by the chin and runs his thumb over her jaw. He forces her to look at him when she tries to pull away. "But I can think of another way you can pay me back for that. Can't you?" Brittany's eyes widen and she wrenches her chin out of his grip, but he grabs her by the arm so she can't get far. He leans forward and whispers something in her ear that makes her skin pale.

My fists tighten and, despite the fear threatening to take over my body, I take confident strides towards them. I don't bother giving any warning before I grab him by the shoulder and yank him back. Thankfully, his crouching position has him off balance so he ends up falling on his back. Brittany scrambles to get to her feet and away from him. Quinn appears at her side and wraps her arms around the taller blonde.

"You are going to regret that," he growls as he gets to his feet and rubs the back of his head.

"Probably not as much as you regret that haircut," I reply with a shrug. I may be about to get my ass kicked, but I couldn't let that opportunity pass me by. I thank genetics for my short stature when he swings at me again. I manage to duck the blow to my face, but his other fist darts out and slams into my stomach before I can step out of the way.

Pain ripples through my abdomen in thick waves and I double over as the breath rushes out of my body, leaving me gasping for air. Rick uses the moment to his advantage and throws another punch at the side of my face that knocks me to the ground. My head spins after it bounces off the floor and blood pools in my mouth. Rough hands flip me over and a heavy weight settles on my stomach.

The first thing I see is Rick's fist cocked back, ready to land another blow against my face, but it never comes because a blonde blur that looks a lot like Brittany attaches itself to his arm. Her voice is muffled, but from what I can make out, she's pleading for him to stop. The glint in his eyes when they meet mine sends a shiver down my spine. He's not going to stop no matter how much Brittany begs.

He shoves Brittany away and turns his attention back to me. When his fist starts to fly towards my face again, I've regained my senses enough to move my head out of the way. I grimace at the sound of his bones crunching against the linoleum floor right next to my ear. He screams in pain and grabs his wrist. Instincts tell me to use the opportunity to get free, but my body is sluggish and the idea of moving while the room is still spinning makes me want to vomit.

Rick shouts at me as he clutches his ruined hand. I assume the words he hurls toward me are threats, but all I can do is smirk and tell him the nineties want their hairstyle back. His face contorts into an ugly sneer and he cocks back his good hand, but before he can follow through with the punch, a hockey stick slams into the back of his head with enough force to knock him sideways.

I groan as soon as his weight slides off my stomach. A hand hovers above me and I somehow get my body to cooperate so I can grab it. I stumble, but an arm almost as tan as my own stops me from falling over again. My eyes squint as I try to figure out who it belongs to because I know I didn't just help myself up.

"Over here."

I slowly turn my head to the side, wincing at the movement, and find a brunette chick holding a broken hockey stick. She looks a little familiar, but my head is so fuzzy at the moment that the first lady could stand in front of me and I wouldn't be able to remember why I recognize her. Then a smirk appears on her face and the answer hits me. She's the girl from the stairwell.

"You were the one flirting with Quinn," I say, though the blood in my mouth makes it come out a garbled mess. I spit on the floor and repeat myself. The brunette nods, which makes me nauseous just to watch, and introduces herself as Mack. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I heard a bunch of screaming and thought it was a TV. I came to shut it up so my Ma could get some sleep," she says with a shrug. "I was kind of surprised when I saw this asshat about to wail on some chick half his size." She nudges an unconscious Rick with her foot before she turns her head towards the cots. I follow her gaze over to Quinn, who is trying to examine the left side of Brittany's face, but the blonde keeps jerking away from her so she can look at me.

Once her eyes finally land on mine, her body visibly relaxes. I give her a small, reassuring smile. I'm careful not to show my teeth because I can still taste the coppery tang of blood that coats them. When I turn back to Mack, her eyes are still on Quinn.

"I didn't know she'd be here so it wasn't like I was trying to show off or nothin'. I just don't like when guys think they can beat up on girls, y'know?"

"I can't say I'm too fond of it either," I say as I gingerly rub the tender side of my face. Getting punched hurts a lot more than I remember. Then again, the last time I was in a real fist fight was when I was nine years old and Puck couldn't hit for shit back then. "He hits like a bitch, though. I bet he doesn't win many fights in hockey."

"He doesn't play anymore. He failed too many drug tests," Brittany says. Now that my head isn't spinning so much, I can see there are red marks forming on the outer corner of her left eye and her jawline respectively. Quinn is still trying to make sure she's okay, but Brittany gives her a tight-lipped smile before she stands up and walks over to Mack and me. Quinn rolls her eyes, but she follows the taller blonde. Brittany quickly thanks the brunette before she wraps me in a hug. She repeatedly apologizes into the crook of my neck before she tightens her grip, as if she's afraid she's going to lose me. "I'm so glad you're okay," she whispers in my ear.

"Yeah, well… He didn't hit very hard," I assure her. I try to ignore the way her body presses into mine, and not because of my tender stomach. Okay, not _just _because of my tender stomach. The sound of Rick groaning from his spot on the floor makes her jump back and I immediately miss the warmth she takes with her.

"You guys might wanna grab your shit and go before he wakes up," Mack says when the pile of limbs starts to move slightly. "I don't think he'll be too happy I broke his stick."

"He won't be happy if I shove it up his ass either," I growl before I head over to Brittany's cot and grab one of the boxes. "I sincerely hope this is all the shit you need because I do not plan to come back here no matter how much you beg me to," I tell Brittany and Quinn. The taller blonde starts to nod, but then her brow furrows and she quickly shakes her head no.

She joins me at the side of her cot and pulls the other two boxes off before she flips the mattress over. On the underside of the mattress is a tear in the fabric. She reaches her hand inside and pulls out a long screwdriver and a wad of cash held together by a rubber band. My eyes narrow at the sight of the money. "What the fuck, Brittany? You had the money all along?"

"Yeah," she says as she tucks the cash into her pocket and tosses the screwdriver on the floor. My jaw drops slightly. She let that asshole beat me up when she had what he wanted. "I was going to tell him where it was, but then you kind of went Warrior Princess on him before I could say anything," she explains when she sees the look on my face. My mouth clicks shut and my face flushes. Now I know how it feels to be a jackass. "I'd really like to go now."

I nod my agreement and she gives me a small smile before she picks up her box of hats and throws Lord Tubbington inside. Quinn grabs the last box and Brittany asks about bringing her mattress with us. After several minutes of Quinn trying to convince Brittany that there aren't enough of us to bring it down, Mack finally speaks up and offers to carry it for us.

"I mean, it's not very big and I carry heavier shit off the trucks at work anyway," she says with a shrug. Quinn tries to tell her it isn't necessary, but the brunette grabs the corner of the old mattress and pulls it off the frame. She awkwardly wraps her arms around it like she's giving a large man a bear hug and tries her best to keep the blankets from falling. "Lead the way," she says, her voice muffled by the mattress.

The trip out of the apartment building is, thankfully, less exciting than the time spent in the actual apartment. Mack sticks around to help us rearrange the boxes and the mattress in the back of my truck even though she doesn't have a coat. Then again, the fact that Quinn wraps one of Brittany's old blankets around her may be why she doesn't complain. In fact, a small smile inches across her face every time Quinn asks if she is warm enough. By the time we're done, the only light comes from the orange glow of the street light. Quinn and Brittany thank Mack for her help, but she only responds with a wink in the shorter blonde's direction before she heads back to the apartment building with the blanket still draped over her shoulders.

"Quinn, you let her take my comforter," Brittany says once we're halfway down the street. The shorter girl blushes and decides to stare out the window instead of replying. Brittany smiles at the reaction before she leans her head against my shoulder and hugs my right forearm since I'm not using it to drive. "I'm really sorry for dragging you into this, Santana." She squeezes my arm tighter. "But thank you for protecting me."

"I wouldn't say I did a whole lot of protecting. More like started a lot of unnecessary trouble."

"There would have been a lot more trouble if you weren't there," she assures me before she pulls away. She folds her hands in her lap as she stares out the front window. We pass several streetlights before she speaks again. "Rick wanted more than money from me," she says in a low voice. She looks over at Quinn to see if she's listening and only continues when she sees that the other blonde is sleeping, her phone clutched in her hand. I don't blame Quinn. The confrontation with Rick had taken a lot out of me as well.

"I used to get my stuff from him," Brittany says. "Usually after rent was due, I couldn't pay for it because I was out of money. He offered me a way to pay without cash." My grip on the steering wheel tightens and I imagine it's Rick's neck I'm squeezing instead of reinforced mahogany. "I never did it and I think it made him mad, but I would always pay him back really fast so he never said anything." Her fingers start to twitch and she looks down at her lap as she says, "I don't think he would have been happy with just the money tonight so thank you."

My grip on the wheel doesn't loosen, but I do manage to give her a curt, "You're welcome."

We spend the rest of the ride listening to Quinn's soft snores. We're crossing the Brooklyn Bridge when Brittany leans against my shoulder again and starts to play with the fingers of my right hand. I ignore the weird tingles the action causes in my arm and focus my attention on the road. By the time we get back to the duplex, both blondes are asleep. While I hate to be the one to wake Brittany up, the pinpricks in my arm are increasing with each passing second, so I gently shake her shoulder.

Sleepy, blue eyes flutter open and stare at me for several seconds before she realizes we've stopped. She quietly apologizes and wakes Quinn up. The smaller blonde grumbles, but she eventually opens the door and slides out. Brittany follows her and shuts the door. She makes sure to mouth another thank you in my direction, which I respond to with a nod of my head. I wait until they're both inside before I lean my seat back and stare up at the roof.

This isn't how I planned my night going at all. I had planned a quiet night of studying once my family left and this has been far from it. I could still go lock myself in my room with a pile of medical books, but my thoughts are so scattered at the moment that I doubt I could comprehend anything.

I groan and rub my eyes with the palms of my hands. There's really only one way I know how to calm my frantic thoughts and frayed nerves. I really don't want to do it, but I know if I don't take care of the problem now, I'll be a mess until I do something to calm my thoughts. Midterms are this week. I can't risk being distracted by a blue-eyed blonde with enough baggage to fill a small train.

I blow a strand of hair out of my face before I lean forward and pull my phone out of the glove compartment. It doesn't take long to find the name I'm looking for. It rings three times before the person on the other end of the line picks up.

"Santana? I'm kind of in the middle of a poker game with Sheila and Ronnie. Can this wait?"

"Not really. I was kind of wondering if you were busy tonight."

"I just said I was in the middle of a poker game so whatever you want, it better be good 'cause I'm about to rob these poor fools blind. And you know how much I love money."

"Midterms are this week and I need to de-stress. Is that a good enough reason for you?"

There's a moment of silence before the other girl says, "I guess Ronnie and Sheila get to keep their paychecks this week. They'll be gone by the time you get here."

She hangs up before I can say anything more. Not that there was anything left to say. I sigh and bring my seat back up before I start the truck again. I let it warm up for a few minutes before I back out of the driveway and head for Aphasia's apartment complex.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Okay, so I know a lot of people expected Santana to go all Lima Heights this chapter, and she tried. Unfortunately, Santana is not a fighter. Even in the show, she gets her ass kicked by both Quinn and Lauren. Well, mostly Lauren. And Rick is an ex-hockey player. She didn't really stand a chance, but it was nice of her to try, right?

**Side-note:** I may or may not be in love with Quinn/The Mack. Sorry. While I do ship Faberry, I kind of see it as a more one-sided thing. Hopefully you guys won't drop the fic just because of that. If you are into Quack, definitely check out Down By the Old Main Drag. -shameless self promotion-

**AN 2:** Someone just asked why Aphasia. For anyone else wondered, it seemed like a good idea for a no-strings-attached kind of couple. I dedicate any future Santasia interactions to **Nova Forever**. :]

The title for this section comes from the song **Straw Dog** by Something Corporate


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note at the end**

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter 6: If I had a heart I could love you<strong>

"Right there," I mumble. The pressure increases and I moan into Aphasia's couch pillow. Her fingers dig deeper until sweet release comes. Afterwards, I roll onto my back so I can give the woman straddling me a small, grateful smile. We may have been awful as a couple, but she could give a damn good massage. I've missed that particular skill since we broke up, along with a few others involving her hands.

"Shit, you were wound up pretty tight," Aphasia says as she scoots to the other side of the sofa. I feel her eyes linger and catch her looking at the purple and black bruise on the side of my face before she can look away.

I hadn't thought about the damage Rick had done until I showed up at Aphasia's apartment and she greeted me with wide eyes. After she had tugged me inside, she shoved me in the direction of the kitchen before she started going through her kitchen drawers, searching for a clean dishtowel. She didn't ask what happened. Instead, she threw me the towel and let me clean up while she got a bag of ice ready.

That had been an hour ago.

Now she won't stop staring at the cleaned up cuts and bruises. I shift into a sitting position and ignore the unspoken question as I lean forward and grab the glass of ice water on the coffee table. I press the cool glass against my cheek for a moment before taking a sip and sinking back against the couch.

"It's been a long day," I say, and she raises her eyebrows. "A really long day that I don't need to talk about."

Aphasia shrugs, leans back, and flips on the TV. Unless she has started to like infomercials, I get the feeling she's only pretending to watch. Her eyes still wander to my face sometimes, but I ignore the weight of her gaze and try to lose myself in the advertisements on the screen.

"Do you need to talk about it now?" she asks, interrupting a commercial for Pedi-Paws.

"Nope."

"Santana, you came to see me with that busted-ass face, asking to wind down, and I cancelled my weekly poker game to help you out. I deserve some sort of explanation and you're gonna give it to me before I throw you out on your ass."

I keep my attention focused on the Pedi-Paws commercial as I say, "Got into a fight. Got my ass kicked. That's all there is to explain."

She roughly grabs my shoulder and forces me to look at her. There's anger in her dark brown eyes as she says, "One more chance, Santana. You get one more chance before I throw you out and lock the door."

She means it. And I don't really want to go back to Puck and Sam just yet, looking like I stepped out of a Rocky movie. So I tell her. I tell her about Brittany and Quinn, about Rick, and about Mack. I probably shouldn't tell her about Brittany's drug use, but it slips out all the same. I blame exhaustion.

"Sounds like a lot to go through for a girl you just met."

I shrug. "It's not like I meant for it to happen. It just sort of did."

I shift my weight to get more comfortable. It already feels like I've been sitting on this couch for hours when it's only been a few minutes. Aphasia rolls her eyes and motions for me to lie against her. I start to decline, but her threat of making me go back home still looms, so I nod instead. We shift until we're both lying on the couch, my head on her chest as she runs her fingers through my hair, careful to avoid any bruises that might be hidden. It's not exactly a position I'm used to with Aphasia. We hadn't been prone to cuddling while we dated.

"She's not a bad person," I say as my eyes struggle to stay open. "She's just lost and needs someone to help her out."

"And _you're_ supposed to be that person?"

"Probably not," I say with a shrug. I sigh and shake my head. I had come here to get away from these thoughts, not talk about them. "I was wondering—"

"If you could stay here a few days?" My surprise must show on my face because she says, "You don't want Puck and Big Lips to worry, right? That's why you've been over here so long."

"Why were you never this intuitive while we were dating?"

She snorts. "Like we ever spent enough time together for you to notice," she says before getting up. "I'll make up a spot for you on the bed."

"I'm not going to make you sleep on the couch."

"Damn straight you're not. You're a big girl. You know how to share."

I'm a little wary when we climb into bed together. It should be strange, sharing a bed with my ex, and at first, I stiffen whenever I feel her shift beside me. But she falls asleep before me and I can finally relax. Not that I had thought she would try anything. We've been broken up long enough that any lingering feelings we may have had for one another have dissipated. There had been the occasional hook up since our break up, but they were purely for stress relief and we definitely didn't have a sleepover afterwards. That may have been what I was planning when I first called her, but my mind had changed during the short drive from my place to hers. It would have been awkward sleeping with Aphasia while thinking of Brittany.

Before I fall asleep for the night, I set my alarm and send Puck and Sam a text so they won't send out the search parties. Both of their responses involve winking smiley faces and I have to roll my eyes before I close them and try to get some sleep.

Waking up the next morning is a struggle. There's a pounding in my head and the thought of getting out from beneath the blankets makes me groan. I pull the covers over my head and try to ignore the alarm from my phone. Aphasia isn't onboard with my plan. She yanks the blankets off the both of us and I immediately curl into a ball to stop the warmth from escaping.

"Rise and shine," she says as she sits up. She reaches over me and grabs my phone to shut off the alarm. I groan again and squeeze my eyes shut. When I make no attempt to move, she lightly shoves me and says, "If you don't get out of this bed on your own, I'm going to help you and you're not going to like it."

I crack one eye open and sigh when I see the stern look on her face. Slowly, I stretch out my body and try not to think about the long day of exams I have ahead of me. Once I'm sitting up, Aphasia mentions picking up some clothes from my place before she takes me to class.

"I can drive myself," I say as I blink the sleep out of my eyes.

She scoffs and shakes her head. "I hardly think you're in a position to walk by yourself right now so what makes you think I'd let you drive?"

She has a point. "There's always the subway."

"Would you just get your ass ready so I can drive you?" She shoos me off her bed and I begrudgingly get up to do as she asks. She gets up as well, tugs on a snug pair of jeans, and exchanges the shirt she had slept in for a tight purple one that goes well with her dark skin tone. "If you keep gawking, you're going to miss at least one of your finals."

"Shit!"

I quickly find the pair of pants I had been wearing the night before and pull them on before pushing past her to leave the bedroom. My first stop is the bathroom. I wince at the sight of the bruising along the right side of my face where Rick had punched me. This particular shade of purple is not a good look for me. Not to mention the eye is slightly swollen as is my nose. Gingerly, I run the tip of my index finger along the darkened skin and hiss when it hurts more than I expected. If I ever see that mullet-headed piece of shit, I'm going to shove a hockey stick so far up his ass he's going to taste ice in his mouth. Deciding there isn't much I can do about the marks, I take a moment to run my fingers through my hair to return some semblance of order to my appearance. After leaving the bathroom, I run into Aphasia, who already has her coat on. The keys to her car dangle from her fingertips.

On the way to the duplex, Aphasia talks about her poker games with Sheila and Ronnie. From the sounds of it, she likes the two girls well enough, but they need to up their game if they ever want to leave her place with money in their pockets. It's a nice way for her pass the time and make a little extra cash. I'm glad she's found a good way to use some of the skills she learned in juvie. As we pull into the driveway, I make a mental note to avoid poker games with her. I tell her I'll be back soon as I unbuckle. She nods to acknowledge she heard me before she turns up the radio.

The guys should still be asleep, but I still open the front door to the house as quietly as I can. I glance at the other door near the foot of the stairs and my thoughts briefly drift towards Brittany and how she is doing. Realizing where my thoughts are heading, I shake my head and start up the stairs.

It doesn't take long to sneak through my own home. The guys are sound sleepers, but even so, I wince when I shut my bedroom door a little harder than I planned. After leaving a quick note for Puck with the promise to return his truck later, I slip out the door to the stairwell with my backpack slung over one shoulder and a duffel bag of clothes in my hand.

At the foot of the stairs, the door to the other residence catches my eye again. I shift the strap of my backpack and debate knocking. I know I should go. I can get some last minute studying in if I get on campus soon enough. Still, last night had been intense and I don't plan on being home for a few days. It couldn't hurt to check on Brittany. My decision made, I approach the door. Just as I'm about to knock, it opens, but instead of Brittany or Quinn, it's Rachel standing in front of me.

She screams and takes several steps back. Her hand flies to her chest as she tries to regain her composure. "Santana! Is terrifying me some kind of sick game to you?"

"Hey, I've never tried to scare you," I say. Her eyes narrow into a glare, but then her gaze lands on my face and they widen slightly. Before she can ask about it, I ask a question of my own. "Is Brittany around?"

She shakes her head. "You just missed her. She went on a walk with Quinn," she says. "What happened to your face? Does it have anything to do with what happened last night?" Before I can answer, she's shaking her head and saying, "I keep telling Quinn that girl is trouble. She gets herself into these situations and people get hurt and—"

"Look, dwarf. It wasn't her fault," I say and Rachel's mouth snaps shut. "She didn't even want to go. Quinn made her. So how about you drop the attitude, hm?"

Rachel lowers her gaze to the floor. "Like I said, she went for a walk with Quinn not too long ago," she says, successfully changing the subject. "She told me they were only going to the end of the street so they should be back soon."

I debate waiting, but Aphasia is still outside and I still have exams to take, so I decide on a quick goodbye instead.

"Do you want me to tell her you stopped by?"

"No," I say before I step outside so I can join Aphasia in the car.

Aphasia has a curious look on her face when I slide into the passenger seat. "If that's your idea of 'Be back soon' I'd hate to know what 'Be back in a while' is," she says after I shut the door.

"Sorry," I say as I lean my aching head against the window. She doesn't press the issue and instead backs out of the driveway, leaving me to my thoughts, which alternate between Brittany and the exams I have today.

My head doesn't feel any better when we reach campus. If it's possible, it feels worse. I just want to swallow a bottle of aspirin and go to sleep, but the professors this semester aren't as lenient as the ones from previous years. I may be able to get a few of the pervs to give me an extension on papers, but they've all made it clear there will be no make-up exams. My grip tightens on my backpack strap as I try to ignore my nerves. The car rolls to a stop and I take a deep breath before I get out of the car. Before shutting the door, I give Aphasia a quick thank you, unsure of what else to say. This type of interaction between the two of us is foreign. Luckily, I don't think I'm the only one who is unsure of how to proceed because she hesitates before she waves off my thanks and tells me to call her once I'm done.

After she drives off, I close my eyes and count to ten. When I open them again, my nerves are at a more manageable level. I fleetingly wish I had been allowed more time to study over the weekend, but quickly banish the thought as I slowly approach the building. My family always means well with their visits and sometimes I really need them even if I don't realize it. Hopefully this will be one of those times.

The halls of the university building are nearly empty when I step through the doors. I'll never be used to the eerie silence that fills the buildings around the time of midterms and finals. In theory it should help with last minute studying, but all it does is make my leg bounce from nervous energy while I sit at one of the vacant tables in the building's lobby. I try to follow the sentences of my biology book, but none of the words stick and my efforts just end up adding to my headache. Then the alarm on my phone goes off in my pocket, startling me out of my futile attempt to study. The few students scattered throughout the lobby glare when it takes me a second too long to pull the phone out of my pocket and silence the alarm. I can't stop myself from scowling at them as I gather up my things and head for my classroom down the hall.

I shouldn't be this nervous. It's only biology. But as I walk into the classroom, I try to remember everything I've studied and come up with a blank. It isn't until after the professor passes out the tests that I let myself relax. I flip through the pages of the test and the grip on my pencil loosens with each question I read. I know this stuff. After reading the last question, I release a shaky breath and flip back to the first page to start the exam.

Sometimes the headache makes it hard to focus. Sometimes I have to squeeze my eyes shut and will the pain in my head away. And sometimes I look up from my test and catch people staring at the bruises on my face, but they quickly go back to their tests once they realize I've caught them. Despite the distractions, I'm one of the first ten people to finish the test.

The professor looks up from the book he is reading when I approach his desk with my test in hand. He raises an eyebrow, almost like a challenge. There's the temptation to look back at my answers, to check them for the fourth time just to make sure they're right, but I resist the urge. I look him in the eyes as I drop the test on his desk facedown. Our eyes stay locked until he gives an almost imperceptible nod and looks back down at the book in his hands, licks the tip of his finger, and turns the page.

I wait until I'm out of the classroom to breathe a sigh of relief. Some of the tension that Aphasia hadn't been able to relieve the night before leaves my shoulders as I walk down the hall. One exam down for the day, one more to go. Then I can call Aphasia and she can get me out of here, away from the people staring at the bruises on my face.

My second midterm for the day is an in-class literary analysis. My hand cramps halfway through writing it, but like the biology exam, it's not as bad as I had imagined it would be. Still, it's a relief to have it out of the way. Even better, Aphasia is quick to return to campus with the car after I call. She must have hung around campus while I took my exams. My suspicions are confirmed when I slide into the passenger seat and she hands me a coffee from one of the many nearby coffee shops.

"Thanks," I say before I take a sip. The hot liquid chases the chill from my body and I relax into the passenger seat as the car pulls forward.

The drive back to her apartment is louder than the trip to campus. Traffic is grueling, cars nearly on top of one another as they try to get through the city. It had been busy this morning, but also tolerable. Now more people are awake and the streets are congested with cars and pedestrians. Horns blare from the cars around us and Aphasia is quick to respond with her own horn, along with a few choice words that would make my mom blush. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to block out the sounds. They're only making my headache worse.

"I think there's a couple of aspirin in the glove compartment," Aphasia says before she presses on the horn and sticks her head out the window to shout at the cars in front of us. I pop open the glove compartment, but all I find is the driver's manual. She looks over and shrugs at the lack of aspirin. "I said I thought there were some there. Wasn't a promise."

I sigh and rest my head against the cool window, suddenly glad Aphasia convinced me to let her drive me.

After a few more interesting combinations of swear words, the car starts to move forward again. Once we break free from the stop and go traffic, the drive back to the apartment goes much smoother. Aphasia keeps the radio at a low volume during the drive and doesn't try to make conversation, which I am grateful for. I do catch her singing along under her breath to the occasional song and a smile tug at the corners of my lips. I never got to see her like this while we dated. It's a nice surprise.

When we get back to her apartment, the first stop I make is the medicine cabinet in her bathroom. After throwing back four of the small pills, I go back out to the living room and collapse on her couch. I can hear her chuckling in the kitchen. Not long after, she's standing next to me with a glass of ice water.

There's a teasing smile on her face when she says, "I remember what my first fight was like, too."

I scowl as I take the cup and she goes back to the kitchen, leaving me to my own devices while she goes about her day like I'm not there; my own devices being a little more studying for my chemistry midterm. As I sprawl out on her couch with my textbook propped up on my chest, my headache ebbs away until it's at tolerable levels. I mouth some of the terms to myself repeatedly and analyze every balancing equation I come across throughout the chapters we've covered. I'm in the middle of dissecting one of the more difficult ones when there's a knock at the door.

My mind jumps to thoughts of Brittany showing up at my door with cookies, but when Aphasia opens the door, it's only a delivery guy with a pizza in his hands.

"I didn't know you ordered anything," I say as she walks past me with the box. The smell of grease and cheese is enticing and before I know it, my chemistry book is on the floor and I'm following Aphasia into the kitchen. She sets it on the counter next to the kitchen sink and I start digging into my pockets while she flips the box open. "How much?"

"Like I remember."

She grabs two paper plates from the cupboard and tosses me one. Once both of our plates are drooping from the weight of the pizza, we end up on the couch together with some B-list horror movie on the television. She laughs at the cheesy special effects and again I'm struck by how much I don't know about her. My gaze drops to my grease-stained plate and my brow furrows.

"Staring isn't gonna make more pizza show up, if that's what you're waiting for."

I look up from the plate and see that she's still focused on the movie. I roll my eyes and get up to grab another slice. Despite the pounding headache the day had started with and the nerve-wracking midterms that had added to it, the day is turning out to be alright.

Taking Puck's truck back to the duplex later that light even manages to be uneventful. The guys are at work—they must have gotten a ride—so I don't have to worry about them seeing my face when I take the keys upstairs and leave them on the kitchen counter. On the way back downstairs, I do find myself hoping that Brittany might step outside while we're there.

She doesn't.

The next two days follow a similar schedule, only I have time in the mornings to cover the bruises on my face with makeup. The swelling around my eye is only noticeable if I look closely thanks to Aphasia reminding me to ice it each night. Still, the stress from the midterms is starting to take its toll and by Wednesday night, I can barely keep my eyes open as I sit on Aphasia's couch and study for my last midterm.

"If you don't know it by now, what makes you think you're gonna remember it tomorrow?" Aphasia asks from the kitchen. I grunt in response. I'm too busy chewing on the end of my pencil to give a more eloquent answer. Suddenly, her hands are on my shoulders, massaging them the way they had the first night I showed up. I can't stop the groan that escapes as she chases the tension away from my shoulders. "I always did know how to make you moan."

I'd look back and glare at her, but the massage feels so nice, I don't want to do anything that would make her stop. My grip on the calculus book loosens and my eyes slowly close. When I open them again, I'm the only one in the living room and it's significantly brighter than it had been. My feet have been propped up on the couch so I'm in a lying position and a soft fleece blanket has somehow materialized over my body.

I yawn and force myself into a sitting position. As I try to fight off the remaining sleepy feelings, I search for my phone to check the time. I find it on the floor next to my calculus textbook. When I check the time, however, my eyes widen and I jump up from the couch. The blanket barely has time to hit the ground before I'm running down the hall to Aphasia's room shouting her name. She's still sleeping, her arms tucked under the pillow and one foot peeking out from under the blanket.

"Aphasia!" She stirs beneath the blanket, but her eyes don't open. "Aphasia, we have to go," I say as I roughly shake her shoulder. She groans and rolls away from me. "I'm going to take your car myself if you don't get your ass up."

"Touch my baby and they'll never find your body," she mumbles as she sits up and rubs her eyes. "What the hell are you goin' on about?"

"My alarm, Aphasia," I hiss. "I fell asleep before I could set it. I'm going to be late." My breathing quickens and I place a hand on the side of my head, trying to contain the building panic. "I'm going to miss the test. I'm going to miss it and I'm going to flunk the class and it's going to screw up my grades and that's going to screw up my—"

"Santana, calm down." I don't know when Aphasia got out of bed, but now she's standing in front of me and her hands are on my shoulders. She makes me look her in the eyes as she says, "We'll get there in time."

I wish I could be as calm as her, but it's my future getting screwed up if I miss the test, not hers. Even when we're in the car, halfway to campus, I can't stop myself from thinking about how screwed I am. I try to ease the nerves by preparing more, but my gaze keeps drifting from the textbook to the digital clock on the dashboard. Time keeps leaping forward when I really need it to crawl.

"Santana, this might be a bad time to ask," Aphasia says as she navigates the car through traffic, "but did you bring your makeup with you?"

My brow furrows and I drag my gaze away from the clock to look at her. "Why would I need my—" My eyes widen and I cover my face with my hands. "It's on your bathroom counter."

I drop my hands from my face and open her glove compartment even though I know I didn't see anything but the owner's manual in there the other day. That's still the only thing in there. No makeup hiding behind it. I move on to the center console between us. I find her makeup bag there, hidden among CDs and torn envelopes, but all I find inside is makeup meant for her skin tone and she's much darker than me.

"God damn it, Aphasia!"

"What are you yelling at me for? I'm not the one who didn't set her alarm," she says. She glances at the makeup bag in my hand and rolls her eyes. "Excuse the hell out of me for not stocking something in your skin color."

All I can think to respond with is, "Well you should have!" It's childish, but it makes me feel better for the moment. Then I remember Mercedes is in my calculus class and the moment is over. I groan and lean my head back against the seat so I can stare up at the roof of the car. "You shouldn't have given me that damn massage last night."

Aphasia scoffs. "Don't even go there, Santana," she says as she turns the car down the road that leads to the university.

"You made me fall asleep."

"Please. You were already on your way there before I touched you," she points out. "It's not my fault you didn't set your alarm so stop trying to push this all on me." The car comes to a stop in front of the building I need and I hear the doors unlock. "But if you're so against my help, then find another ride home."

"You know, I think I might just do that," I say before I get out of the car and slam the door shut. She shouts something at me, but I'm already hurrying towards the building. I barely have enough time to make it to the classroom as it is. I'm not going to waste any more time listening to her yell at me, even if she has a point.

I make it to the classroom just as the professor is closing the door. She gives me a stern look as I duck under her arm and slip into the classroom. The door clicks shut behind me and I take a seat in the back row, far from my usual seat beside Mercedes in the middle of the room. While our professor hands out the tests, Mercedes looks around the room. When she glances over her shoulder towards the back of the room, I quickly duck my head and try to hide my face. Luckily, the professor wastes no time handing out the tests and when I glance up from the desk, Mercedes is hunched over, working on her own packet of equations. With any luck, I can finish first and make an escape before she can see me.

But Mercedes has always been better at calculus than me. And this past week has been anything but lucky, so of course she finishes before me. I can feel her gaze on my shoulders as she walks by me. I turn my head away until I hear the door shut. Then I try to engross myself in the math problems to ignore the fact that I know she'll be waiting for me when I finish. Maybe if I take too long, she'll give up and leave. I don't really believe it, but it's worth a shot. I focus on my test once more and my brow furrows as I try to decipher another problem. Taking forever seems to be happening, intentionally or not.

It doesn't go as smoothly as the other exams. I don't even want to turn it in, but time is ticking away and people are slowly trickling out of the classroom until I'm one of the last few students remaining. I should check the test one more time, but screw it. I breathe a heavy sigh and take the test up to the front. On the way out, I can only hope that Mercedes left. Those hopes are quickly dashed when I hear her voice as soon as I leave the classroom.

"Where have you been? You cut it a little close," she says. I nod, but try to keep my head ducked so my hair hides the injuries on my face. "Sam told me you've been with Aphasia. You two aren't getting back together, are you?"

"No, I just needed to get out of the house for a while," I reply as I try to find something to hide my face with. All I find are several issues of the school newspaper strewn about the hallway. Someone must have been celebrating finishing their last midterm. I swipe one up from the floor and quickly open it wide so my face is hidden behind the pages. Meanwhile, Mercedes talks beside me about what she's doing for spring break. I think.

"Have you been listening to a word I've been saying?" she asks as we approach the double doors to the next hallway. "And since when are you interested in the school newspaper?"

"Since always."

"Oh yeah? What's the paper called?"

Shit. Not my best lie. My brow furrows as I try to remember the name.

"Santana, the name is at the top of the page, which you would know if you ever read the newspaper," Mercedes says when I take too long to respond. "What is going on with you today?"

"I'm fine."

The paper disappears from my face and I see Mercedes in front of me with the paper crumpled in her hand. She drops it when she sees the marks on my face.

"Santana Lopez, what the hell happened? Do Sam and Puck know about this? Did you and Puck do something stupid?" The rapid fire questions are accompanied by prying fingers trying to make sure I'm okay.

"Calm down, Wheezy. It's nothing," I say as I take a step away from her. "Puck had nothing to do with it." She snorts in disbelief. "Seriously, he didn't. They don't know about it."

She stares at me for a moment before leaning in to whisper, "Does this have anything to do with Aphasia?"

I shake my head and tighten my grip on the straps of my backpack. "The only thing Aphasia did was let me stay over while I waited for this to go away," I say, gesturing towards my face. I frown when I remember the last conversation I had with the other girl. "Of course, now I'll have to go back home today anyway."

Mercedes smirks. "You said something stupid."

"God, could you at least phrase it like a question?"

She laughs and shakes her head. "I take it Aphasia won't be the one giving you a ride home today then?" I scowl and she laughs even more. "Come on. I'll give you a ride and you can explain that little number you had done on your face."

I consider my options and decide I'd rather spend time with Mercedes than dozens of strangers on the subway. After a moment more of debate, I shrug and accept her offer. She had probably planned on seeing Sam anyway.

The drive back to my place with Mercedes is almost like the drive back with Aphasia, only there's less swearing and louder music. I have to shout over the radio while to explain what happened with Rick the Dick. This time I censor myself and manage not to spill _all_ of Brittany's history with him. Mercedes glances over at me and I know she knows I'm not telling her everything. Some things aren't mine to tell. I already regret telling Aphasia everything, but I had been so exhausted and everything had been piling up so much that I couldn't keep things to myself any longer. Luckily, she doesn't push me to tell her what I'm hiding. It seems she understands that I can't talk about it. Instead, she spends the rest of the drive singing along to the radio. I join in on a couple songs, but for the most part, I just listen.

We're just finishing and Adele duet when we pull into my driveway. She cuts the engine and watches as I fiddle with the strap of my backpack. I'm not ready to go inside and face Sam and Puck, but I can't just sit in Mercedes's car all day. With a sigh, I open the door and force myself out of the car. This is going to be so awkward.

I follow Mercedes inside, up the stairs, and let her go through the door first. Not that it helps. Sam gets trapped in a liplock with Mercedes as soon as he sees her, but Puck is free to see the marks on my face. And for the third time in a week, I'm forced to explain everything that happened with Rick.

By the time I finish, Sam's face is red and his hands are balled into tight fists. Puck's expression isn't much nicer, his mouth drawn in a thin line and his arms crossed over his chest. Sam pulls out of Mercedes's embrace and grabs his coat off the rack next to the door.

"Dude, what are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Sam pulls the coat on and heads for the kitchen counter. "I'm going to go kick this guy's ass. He can't just get away with this." He starts to push past Puck, but Puck grabs his arm and pulls him back. "Let me go."

"No, man. You need to let it go," Puck says. "I want to pop this guy in the face as much as you do, but you're just gonna get yourself in trouble." Sam's face turns a darker shade of red and he tries to pull his arm away, but Puck's grip is too tight. "Trust me. This isn't high school. You go down there looking for a fight, you're gonna get your ass arrested." Puck's eyes meet mine and he gives me an apologetic smile. "Not that you aren't worth jail time, Lopez, but it sounds like you guys already taught him a lesson while you were down there."

"So what then? He just gets away with it?"

"He'll get what's coming to him," Mercedes says. "People like him always do."

Sam visibly relaxes when Mercedes wraps her arms around one of his. He runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. "Adulthood sucks," he finally says with a sigh before he kisses Mercedes on the forehead. Then he shifts his gaze to me and asks, "Are you sure you don't want me to go down and beat this guy's ass?"

I shake my head. "He's not worth the effort," I say as I start towards the kitchen. The half-empty pot of coffee is calling my name. I pour myself a cup and put it in the microwave. While I wait for it to heat up, I lean my back against the counter. My eyes land on the familiar duffel bag sitting by the wall next to the living room. "I see Aphasia stopped by."

All three pairs of eyes follow my gaze and the two boys laugh.

"Oh yeah," Sam says. "She showed up and threw your stuff at me."

"What did you do to piss her off?"

I groan and lean my head back. Why does everyone know I did something wrong? "I may have implied it was her fault that everything was going wrong this morning."

Puck snorted. "You're an idiot, you know that?"

"I'm aware," I say through clenched teeth. Thankfully, the microwave beeps and ends the conversation. I pull out the hot cup and cradle it in my hands, comforted by the smell coming from it.

"Speaking of visitors," Puck starts as I take a sip, "that girl who brought the gross cookies stopped by looking for you yesterday."

"Dude, that girl was _Brittany_. The one Santana went with on Sunday?" Puck stares back at him, a blank expression on his face. "She ate breakfast with us Saturday," Sam says. The blank expression stays on Puck's face. Sam rolls his eyes and asks, "Do you pay attention to anything?"

"Did she say what she wanted?" I ask before Puck can answer. If he and Sam get distracted, it will take forever to get back to the topic.

Puck shakes his head. "When I told her you hadn't been home for a couple days, she got all fidgety and left."

I take another sip of the coffee and then stare down at the steaming beverage, trying to figure out what I want to do with the information. I'm still tired from the long week of midterms and the thought of curling up under my blankets for the rest of the day sounds so good. But I don't want Brittany to think I'm avoiding her. I swallow another mouthful of coffee and pour the rest back in the coffee pot.

"I'll be back later," I tell them. Puck winks at me and I slap him on the shoulder as I walk by him. "It's not like that."

"Sure it isn't."

"Leave the poor girl alone," Mercedes says as she leads Sam to the living room. Still, there's a hint of teasing in her voice as she says, "Behave down there, Santana."

I roll my eyes. It's nice to know my friends don't blame Brittany for what happened. As I head down the stairs, I can't help but wonder if their opinions would be different if I had told them Brittany's full history with Rick. I push those thoughts away as I approach the door to the other residence. I take a moment to make sure my hair isn't a complete mess before I knock.

It takes several seconds before I hear someone's footsteps. When the door opens, it's Rachel again. Before I can ask if Brittany is home, Rachel is calling for the girl in question. I hear several quick footsteps before Brittany shows up next to Rachel. The short brunette lingers, but when it appears neither of us will speak with her around she huffs and leaves us alone.

"Heard you came looking for me," I say with a smirk. She blushes and ducks her head.

"I did," she says in a quiet voice. When she looks back up, there's a smile on her face. It's small, but it's there. Then her eyes flicker to my cheek and the smile turns into a frown. She reaches up and her fingers hover over my skin until I nod my approval. She gently runs her fingertips over the marks and her brow furrows.

I put my hand over hers and give a gentle squeeze. "I'm fine," I assure her. She hesitates before she nods and lowers her hand. A change of subject is in order. "An annoying birdy told me you went out for a walk with Quinn the other day." She nods and I can't help but smile as I say, "That's awesome. I knew you could do it."

She looks down at the floor and shuffles her feet before she says, "I was um… I was practicing."

"Practicing?"

She nods and looks up. There's a smile on her face again, only this one is shy and she can barely meet my eyes as she says, "I wanted to practice so I could go on a long one with you."

The answer is certainly not one I was expecting. A warm feeling fills my chest and this time it's my turn to duck my head to hide the blush fighting to appear on my tan cheeks. I can't fight the smile that forms on my face. I must take too long to answer though, because the next thing I know, she's rambling.

"I'm sorry. That must sound dumb. Practicing to go for a walk," she says. She clears her throat and I look up to see her tuck a lock of hair behind her ears. "Sorry," she says again, and I finally let her see my smile.

"I think I'd really like to go for a walk with you, Brittany."

Her eyes widen. "Like maybe now?"

I shrug. "I don't see why not."

"Hold on," she says before she disappears from the doorway. When she comes back, she's wearing a light jacket. "I'm ready."

"I see that," I say as I take a step back so she can step into the stairwell. She calls over her shoulder, saying she'll be back later, and closes the door behind her. "Anywhere you want go?"

"Wherever you want to go is fine," she says as she pulls the hood of her jacket over her ears. "I mean, Quinn and I just walked around the block a few times."

I frown as we walk towards the front door. That's a little too repetitive for me. "Let's just see where we end up."

Brittany nods and follows me outside into the brisk air. It isn't as cold as the afternoon we went to her studio apartment. Some of the snow is even finally starting to melt. It's strange how the warm weather always sneaks up on me. I ask Brittany which way she went with Quinn and after she answers, I lead her in the opposite direction.

At first, the space around us is quiet. She doesn't seem uncomfortable though. In fact, whenever I look over at her, the tiny smile from earlier is still there. Gradually, she starts to step closer to me. I don't mind so I don't mention it.

"I talked to my old boss," she finally says as we approach the street corner. "She's going to let me come back to work."

"Where?"

"A corner store," she says with a shrug. "It's not much, but it's the only place I can think of. And the owner likes me well enough."

"I'm sure Rachel is happy about that."

She nods, but her smile falters. "Quinn's happy, too."

"You don't sound very happy about it."

"I am," she says. "I'm just a little…"

"Nervous?"

"Terrified," she says. She quickly shuts her mouth, as if that had slipped out when it wasn't supposed to. The smile is gone. She bites her lower lip and shakes her head. "I mean, yeah. I'm nervous."

"You're allowed to be scared, you know."

"I don't want to be," she says in a quiet voice before she shakes her head. "This isn't why I asked you on the walk. I mean it was, but it wasn't."

"You lost me."

"I didn't ask you on a walk to talk about me," she says with a huff. "I mean, I wanted to tell you about the job thing, but it wasn't supposed to end up like that. It was supposed to be 'Hey, Santana. I'm getting my job back' and then we were supposed to talk about you. I don't want to talk about me anymore."

"Had it all planned out then, huh?" I say with a chuckle.

She nods. "Yes, and now I'm sabotaging my own plan," she says with a pout, which only makes me laugh harder. "It's not funny!"

"I'm sorry," I say, but I'm still laughing which only makes her pout more. "Okay, okay. We'll talk about me for a while if that's what you really want."

"It is."

"Well then what do you want to know?"

Her lips purse together as she tries to think of a question. The silence builds between us before she asks, "What's your favorite movie?"

This question shouldn't make the heat rise to my cheeks, but I can feel myself blushing as I say, "MASH."

Her brow furrows. "Is it about mashed potatoes?"

"You've never seen MASH?"

"You've never had potatoes?"

"What? No, I never said that," I say with a laugh. "It's a war movie from the seventies. My dad and I used to watch the show every morning before I went to school."

"You just said it was a movie."

"The show was based off the movie. My dad didn't let me watch the movie until I was older," I tell her. She nods her head in understanding and I take that as a sign to turn the question back on her. "So what's your favorite?"

"I told you I didn't want to talk about me."

"This is the only one I'll ask about you, I swear," I say. She still seems hesitant, so I ask, "How are we supposed to have a movie marathon if I don't know your favorite movie?"

"You want to watch movies with me?" I nod and the smile from before starts to show again. "It's Fried Green Tomatoes. It's not really about tomatoes, but it's good."

"Never heard of it," I say, "so I guess that will be the first on our movie marathon list."

"I like that idea," she says before she goes quiet again, probably thinking of another question. "Favorite color?"

The conversation continues this way as we walk further and further from the house. And the further we get from the house, the longer we're outside, the longer her pauses get between her questions until she's stopped asking them altogether. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her fingers drumming against her thigh. Slowly, I slip my hand into hers and the fidgeting stops.

"Everything alright?"

She starts to nod, but seems to think better of it and shakes her head instead. "I think we went too far."

Now I can see why she's so nervous about starting her job again. I don't know how far it is from Quinn's house, but I can guess that it's further than this. If she can't handle being outside for this long, I don't know how she's going to make it through a full workday. I give her hand a gentle squeeze and take a step so I'm in front of her.

"Whenever I'm nervous, I close my eyes and take deep breaths while counting as high as I need to," I tell her. She doesn't seem inclined to take the advice, so I demonstrate by slowly closing my eyes and inhaling deeply through my nose, exhaling through my mouth. After several breaths, I open my eyes and see that hers are closed. Only hers are squeezed shut and her breathing is rapid. "Hey, calm down or it's not going to work." I rub my thumb over the back of her hand and her breathing starts to slow. "That's right. Just focus on breathing and counting."

We stand together for several minutes until her eyes finally open again.

"Are you alright now?"

"I lost count," she says in a quiet voice, and I don't know if that's a yes or a no. "Can we go back?"

"If that's what you want to do."

"It's not, but I think I need to," she says as she squeezes her eyes shut again. "It's just too loud out here."

I nod and tell her it won't take too long to get back home. I don't know if she believes me. She just tightens her hold around my hand and lets me lead her back to the house.

I hadn't noticed the sounds of the city while we walked. I'm so used to the noise, I don't really hear it unless I focus. But now that we aren't talking, it's all I have to focus on. People yelling for their kids to come inside, trashcans being dragged to the street, radios blaring, cars honking and some backfiring—those ones make Brittany's grip tighten around my hand until I can hardly feel my fingers. Now that the conversation is gone, I can hear it all.

By the time we make it back to the duplex, Brittany's hand is shaking in mine. When I try to lead her inside, however, she makes me stay on the front porch with her. She closes her eyes for a moment and when they open again, she looks more determined.

She's still shaking, but her voice is even when she says, "I'm glad you let me go on a walk with you."

"I'm glad you asked," I say and the blush returns to her pale cheeks. "I'm serious. It was the best part of my day."

She rubs her arm as she says, "You must have had a crappy day then."

"Well yeah, it was. But the walk made it much better, so thanks for that."

The smile she gives me in response is shaky, but at least it's a smile. "Do you still want to watch movies together? Not tonight, but some other night. When you're not busy or having a crappy day. One of those nights."

I shush her and put a finger up to her lips to get her to stop talking for a moment. I hadn't really thought about the action. It just happened. When I pull my fingers away, she looks down at her hands and fidgets.

"I still want to have a movie night with you," I tell her. "I'm on break until next Monday so that will be your best time to catch me, okay?"

"Okay," she says in a small voice before we finally head inside. Outside the door to the Berry and Fabray residence, she's still fidgeting. "I don't really know how to say goodbye to you."

"Just, I dunno, whatever feels right, I guess," I say with a shrug. I've never been good with goodbyes either. Normally I just leave someone hanging, but this doesn't feel like one of those situations. Actually, it doesn't feel like any situation I've ever been in and suddenly I'm fidgeting, too. It must be contagious.

Then her hand is on my cheek—the one with the least amount of bruising—and Brittany is studying my face. Several seconds pass until she takes a step closer. After a moment of hesitation, she presses her lips against my forehead, only to quickly pull away again.

"Um… Enjoy the rest of your day, Santana," she says as her face turns a deep shade of red. She escapes through the door before I have the chance to recover.

After I shake myself out of my shocked state, I head up the stairs to my own place, a little too aware of the smile on my face with each step I take.

It certainly hadn't been the worst way for her to say goodbye.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> So yeah, this took a little while. Life and stuff got a little hectic for a while so my multi-chapter fics got put on hold and I worked on new ideas for a while. I hope you all enjoyed this, even if it took a long time to get back to Brittany. I just wanted to show Santana's life outside of Brittany. And if anyone is hating on Aphasia because they think she's going to get in the way of Brittana somehow, please keep it out of the reviews.

Chapter title is from the song **If I Had a Heart** by Fever Ray


	7. Chapter 7

**AN:** This chapter is shorter than the last, but I promise there's a good chance you'll still be happy with it. Enjoy.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7: No pain inside, you're my protection<strong>

It's still weird standing in front of the door to the Berry and Fabray residence, waiting to be let inside. The laptop and duffel bag in my hands makes it feel even stranger. I never thought I would be having a sleepover down here. But Sam and Mercedes have dibs on the living room tonight, which means Brittany and I will be having our movie night downstairs while Quinn and Rachel are gone. At least, they're supposed to be gone. Yet when I kick the bottom of the door several times to knock, it's Rachel who answers. Again.

"Are you like the gatekeeper or what?" I ask, stepping past her.

She huffs and shuts the door behind me. "Brittany is in the shower and Quinn is with that… that… _Mack_person. But you are more than welcome to wait in the stairwell until Brittany is available to let you in."

"I'll pass," I say as I do a quick scan of the living room. The pullout couch is currently in couch mode. Brittany's open duffel bag sits beside it, some of its contents spilling out onto the floor. I set my own bag next to hers before I start setting up my laptop. It takes some searching, but I finally find an outlet hidden between the couch and the end-table. When I turn around, Rachel is standing next to me with a pair of panties in her hand. "I don't know what Quinn told you, but I'm not really into you."

Her eyes narrow. "These happen to be yours, Santana," she says as she shoves them toward me. "I found them hanging from the towel rack in the bathroom last month and Brittany keeps forgetting to take them to you."

"Oh yeah." I take the underwear and stuff them in my bag. Come to think of it, I still have a tank-top from Brittany in my room. I had completely forgotten about it. As I make a mental note to bring it down for her sometime in the future, I take a seat next to my laptop and continue setting up the movie. Rachel hasn't moved. Without looking away from the computer screen, I ask if she needs something. She starts to open her mouth to speak, but promptly closes it and shakes her head before she retreats to the kitchen.

While I search through my files for the downloaded movies, I can hear the spray of water coming from the bathroom. Then there's a knock at the door and Rachel hurries from the kitchen to the living room to answer it. She takes a moment to fix her hair before she opens it, revealing a tall man with a familiar lopsided grin on his face. I sneer when the two of them start kissing in the doorway. Thankfully, I don't have to watch long. Rachel pulls away so she can go grab her coat, leaving Finn in the doorway with his hands shoved in his pockets while he waits. He greets me with a hello, but before I am forced to respond, Rachel returns with her jacket.

"I trust that my home will still be in one piece when we get back?" Rachel asks as she pulls her coat on.

I roll my eyes and say, "There won't be a scratch on it."

She nods before she loops her arm through Finn's and lets him lead her out the door, leaving me alone with my laptop and the sound of the running water coming from the shower. However, I can only scroll through the internet for so long before my gaze wanders from the computer screen to the shelves of pictures that line the living room walls. Curiosity gets the better of me and after I set the laptop aside, I get up to examine the decorations I hadn't had the chance to see the first time I was here.

There are several photographs of Rachel, some where she's in costume and others that appear candid—one in the kitchen with flour on her face and her hair a mess, another where she's curled up on the couch with what appears to be a script in her hand. In some she even manages to look less obnoxious than she usually does. There are others that look like they've been done professionally. There aren't many pictures of Quinn. In fact, the only one I find is the one of her with Brittany. I smile at the photograph and move on until I find the one Brittany had brought back from the studio apartment. I take the picture down for a closer look and try to imagine what Brittany may have been like as a kid, but a muffled yell of surprise interrupts my plan and I look over my shoulder to find Brittany standing at the edge of the living room.

Her usually blonde hair is dark from the shower and some of the strands are clumped together. Droplets drip from the tips of her hair down to the carpeted floor. She has one hand over her mouth while the other holds the corner of a blue towel that must have been wrapped around her torso before she walked into the living room. Said towel no longer covers much of anything. My face heats up as I quickly cover my eyes with my hand and turn away from her.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," she says, and I hear footsteps as she comes further into the living room. "I forgot to bring a change of clothes to the bathroom. I heard Rachel leave and thought I was the only one here."

"It's fine." I uncover my eyes and occupy myself by putting the picture frame back where it belongs. Moments later, Brittany says I can turn around. When I do, she's by the couch in a pair of grey sweatpants. A loose yellow t-shirt covers her previously bare torso. Her cheeks are bright red and she can't meet my eyes as she apologizes again. "Hey, I said it's alright." Still, she covers her face with her hands and shakes her head, sending water droplets everywhere. Slowly, I approach her and place a hand on one of hers. She startles at the contact. I manage to coax her hands away from her face, revealing the bright red color that still colors her pale skin. "Can I just say that this little accident is a lot better than the one where you accidentally threw up on me?"

Thankfully, she laughs. Her face is still red, but the uneasiness seems to have left her for the moment. By the time we sit on the couch, her cheeks have returned to their normal color. This close to her, I can see the light dusting of freckles just beneath her eyes. Unaware of my scrutiny, Brittany ruffles her wet hair with the towel and I can't help but smile as I watch. It's the most relaxed I've ever seen her, even if she does seem to be struggling to keep her eyes open.

"Are you sure you want to do this tonight?"

She nods even as she starts to yawn.

"Long day at work?"

Another nod.

"Do you…" I'm not sure if I should even ask. I'm not the right person for this kind of stuff. Still, I'm the only one here. "Do you need to talk about it?"

"No," she says. "Nothing went wrong. It's just exhausting." Something tells me she's not talking about her job, so I take her hand in mine and give it a comforting squeeze. She smiles and ducks her head as she says, "Thanks."

It doesn't take her long to settle into the couch while I pull the computer onto my lap. Her hand is still in mine, but neither of us attempt to disentangle them. Instead, her other hand comes to rest on our already conjoined ones.

"Sorry we have to watch it on the computer. I don't really do DVDs."

"This is fine," she says as she scoots closer so our bodies are touching. She rests her head on my shoulder and watches as I use my free hand to bring up the movie. Just before I hit play, she asks, "Is this okay?" When I tell her it is, she tightens her hold on my hand then focuses on the computer screen.

As promised, we start with Fried Green Tomatoes. And like Brittany said, it isn't about tomatoes at all. Instead, I get sucked into a movie about four women in two different time periods. It gets even more interesting when two of the women appear to be a little friendlier than _just friends_.

Sometimes I glance down at the blonde next to me and find her watching intently during the scenes that revolve around Ruth and Idgie. When I look down during a part set in the present, I catch Brittany watching me, which makes her face flush again and she quickly returns her attention to the screen while mumbling that she was "just making sure I was enjoying the movie."

Truthfully, I am enjoying it. And I continue to enjoy it up until the scene between Ruth and Idgie near the end. Then I end up sitting in stunned silence as the movie progresses without the two of them. It isn't until I feel Brittany's hand on my cheek that I realize I'm crying. I pull away from her touch and quickly wipe the tears away with the back of my hand.

"This is so… God, it's just a fucking movie. I don't know why I'm crying," I say as I try to keep the rest of my tears at bay.

"Because it's sad?"

It's a simple suggestion, but technically Brittany isn't wrong. I can handle sad movies, though. I watched that stupid Notebook movie with Mercedes and didn't even sniffle. I watched that Marley movie with my family and didn't shed a tear. I don't know why this one is affecting me.

Brittany bites her lip before reaching forward and placing her hand on my cheek again. This time I don't pull away. "Santana, you know you're allowed to cry, right?"

The question takes me by surprise, but it makes me think. This movie isn't any sadder than the other movies I've watched. The only difference is Brittany, and something about her presence gave me permission to be vulnerable.

"Yeah, I think I know that now," I say as I look back up, and she gives me a small smile in response. Once we go back to watching the end of the movie, I can't help but think about how much I like seeing that smile. And I wonder if I'll ever see her smile the way she did in the picture of her and her sister.

Before starting the next movie, Brittany excuses herself. She grabs her towel off the floor and disappears around the corner in the direction of the bathroom and Quinn's bedroom. When she comes back a few minutes later, she's dragging a heavy blanket behind her. She sits down and I lift the laptop so she can drape the blanket over both of our legs. Once we're both covered, she slips her hand back into mine.

"I hope you're comfortable," I grumble after she rests her head against my shoulder again.

"Very," she whispers. She rubs her thumb over the back of my hand and asks, "What's your movie about again?"

"Oh no," I say as I try to ignore the way her breath tickles my ear. "I didn't get to know what yours was about so you'll just have to go in blind for mine, too."

"I would have told you what it was about if you had asked," she says, but she doesn't press me for information. Instead, she scoots closer. I feel her body shift as she curls her legs up on the couch to get more comfortable. Once she's settled, I start the movie.

It's nice, this time with Brittany. For once, there isn't a crisis. No withdrawal symptoms to fight through, no nightmares, and best of all, no assholes trying to bash my face in. Not that I mind helping Brittany, but it's refreshing to have a moment of peace where we can enjoy each other's company without worrying about one thing or another. And Brittany is definitely good company.

Her grip tightens on my hand. I look down and find her staring at the screen with wide eyes while the Army medics operate on a wounded soldier. There's a close-up of the man's insides and she squeezes my hand even tighter while pulling a disgusted face. I may have forgotten how gross this movie could be.

"I guess now would be a bad time to suggest making spaghetti," I say with a teasing smile.

"Ew," she says, shaking her head even as she continues to watch the operation. "Can we skip the gross parts? I want to be able to eat later."

"Aw. Those are the best parts," I say, but I do as she asks. Unfortunately, I skip right into a sex scene. "Mierda!" I curse and try to skip forward, but the scene is longer than I remember. When I feel Brittany laughing against my shoulder, I'm surprised enough that I stop my frantic attempt to skip the scene so I can glance at Brittany. She's looking up at me with a wide grin across her face. "Oh, so you think the sex scenes are funny, but you get one look at some guy's intestines and I have to skip ahead? I see how it is."

She laughs and shakes her head. "I just thought your reaction was kind of funny," she says, but I'm still thinking about her laughter. "I'm an adult, Santana. You don't have to protect me from sex scenes." Her brow furrows and she asks, "Why are you smiling like that?"

"Like what?"

"All wide like that."

"I'm not," I insist while trying to change said smile into a scowl or at the very least a neutral expression. I know I've failed when she laughs again, but at least she returns her gaze to the computer screen. However, a few minutes later I can feel her watching me again. "I'm not smiling."

"Whatever you say, Santana."

At some point during the movie, Brittany's head ends up resting on my lap instead of my shoulder. I trail my fingers through her hair and she breathes a content sigh. Soon her breathing changes and when I look down, she's fast asleep. I move my laptop to the couch's armrest for a moment so I can shift the comforter. She mumbles as I pull the edge of the blanket out from under her cheek, but she doesn't wake.

After I adjust the blanket so it covers her up to her shoulders, I continue the movie, but I keep the laptop on the armrest. It's a good thing I do because a few seconds later, she rolls onto her other side. I startle when her forehead presses against my stomach, but the movement doesn't wake her. Once I know she isn't going to wake up, I go back to watching the movie. Remembering the nightmares from our last impromptu sleepover, I make sure to keep my fingers running through her hair while she sleeps. She doesn't stir again until the end of the football game near the end of the movie.

"Have a nice nap?"

She rolls onto her back and nods before rubbing her eyes. "Did I miss anything important?"

"Just, you know, the whole movie," I say with a chuckle, and her cheeks turn red again as she apologizes for falling asleep. "Don't worry. It isn't for everyone."

"As long as you aren't mad at me."

"You can make up for falling asleep by choosing the next one."

Her eyes widen and she quickly sits up. "We're going to watch more?"

"I mean, I'm hoping I didn't bring a change of clothes for nothing," I say. "If you want me to leave now, I can." She shakes her head. "Good," I say before getting to my feet, "but if we're going to do the rest of this movie night right, I think we need snacks."

"There's ice cream in the freezer," she suggests as she stands up, too.

"I was thinking more along the lines of popcorn or chips or something not frozen," I mumble, following her into the kitchen. "Don't you think it's a little too cold for ice cream?"

"It's never too cold for ice cream," she insists as she pulls a tub out of the freezer. She puts it on the counter and pops the lid before searching through the cupboards for a bowl. "But if you want something else, we have popcorn and pizza rolls and cookies and—"

"Coffee?"

She pauses in front of the cabinet and her brow furrows. "I don't think coffee counts as a snack, but we have it. Somewhere. I think."

"If you do, I'll find it."

It's in the same place it had been the first time I spent the night. While Brittany pulls more and more snacks out of the fridge and the pantry, I set up the coffee machine. Once it starts brewing, I tell Brittany I'll be right back before I grab my duffel bag out of the living room and head for the bathroom to change into a pair of sweats and a tank-top.

When I come back, Brittany has several large bowls scattered across the counter and each one holds a mountain of chips. Meanwhile, she's standing in front of a container of popcorn kernels, another bowl, and an air-popper. There's a measuring cup in her hand filled with kernels. She promptly dumps the contents into the air-popper and puts the lid on.

"Um… I'm not sure we need all of this."

"But we might," she says before she plugs the chord into the outlet. It whirs to life and kernels clink against the sides. One piece of popcorn shoots out from the air-popper and into the bowl, followed by another, which is followed by four more. Soon, a wave of popcorn falls from the spout of the popcorn machine and Brittany has to spin the bowl to keep it from spilling over.

When the bowl is almost full and the machine shows no signs of emptying any time soon, I ask, "How much did you put in there?"

Brittany shrugs and continues to spin the bowl to keep the popcorn level. She can only spin it so much before the bowl runs out of space. Soon, popcorn flows over the sides of the bowl onto the counter and Brittany has to unplug the machine to stop the onslaught.

"I guess I put too much," she says with a sheepish smile. A straggling kernel pops and bounces off the rim of the bowl.

"Maybe just a little."

She starts to clean up the mess until I remind her that her ice cream is going to melt if she lets it sit on the counter too long. She looks torn between cleaning up the popcorn and scooping out the ice cream. She settles for putting the ice cream back in the freezer until she finishes cleaning. After I pour myself a cup of coffee, I help her out. Once the counter is clear, it's looks like it would make a good seat, so I hop up and watch Brittany as she gets the tub of ice cream back out of the freezer. She sets it next to me and I sip on the bitter coffee while she scoops out three large spoonfuls. She proceeds to drown the vanilla ice cream in a flood of chocolate syrup.

"Wouldn't it have been easier to just buy chocolate ice cream?"

"I like it better this way," she says. She inspects her chocolate syrup dessert for a moment before she goes back to the fridge. She returns with a can of whipped cream and a jar of cherries. First, she sprays a wall of whipped topping around her ice cream. Then she opens the jar of candied cherries and places several of them in the circle of whipped cream before smothering all of it in more chocolate syrup.

"I'm going to get cavities just looking at that."

"Don't make fun of my masterpiece," she says as she digs through a drawer for a spoon. Once she finds one, she uses it to point at the middle of the sugary mess. "It's an ice cream castle," she insists. She waves the spoon in a circle over the ring whipped cream. "This is the wall that protects it," she says before she points at one of the cherries, "and these are the soldiers."

"Okay, but I think your ice cream castle is in dire need of a moat of boiling lava."

"And where do you think I'm going to find that?"

I respond by pouring a river of coffee in between the whipped topping and the ice cream.

"Voilà. A perfectly secure castle," I say and take a sip of what's left of my drink.

Brittany dips her spoon in the ice cream and coffee mixture and offers it to me. I start to decline—I've never been big on ice cream outside of summer time—but it's the warmer part of the dessert, so I decide to go for it. I lean forward to take the spoon between my lips, but she moves it to the side at the last second and paints the side of my face in vanilla and chocolate.

"You… You did not just do that."

She reaches up and swipes some of the ice cream off my cheek. She licks it off her finger and nods before she says, "I think I did."

"Oh, you are so going to regret that," I say as I set my coffee cup down. She takes a step back when she sees me reach for the whipped cream can, but she isn't fast enough and soon her face is covered in the white cream topping, as are her arms from trying to protect her face.

"Santana, I only put a little ice cream on you!"

I shrug. "Don't start something if you can't finish it."

Before I know it, my face is covered in something cold, sticky, and sweet. I have to close my eyes to keep the concoction from dripping into them. When I open them again, the bowl that once held her ice cream castle is mostly empty and Brittany's hand is covered in whipped cream, ice cream, and chocolate syrup.

"I may have deserved that," I say as my hand creeps towards the jar of cherries, "but you totally destroyed the ice cream kingdom, and for that you're going to pay." My hand closes around the jar and Brittany makes a run for it.

We're on our fourth lap around the kitchen when I finally manage to grab hold of the hem of her shirt. It slows her down enough that I can reach up and pour the jar of cherries down her back. She shrieks and comes to a halt as she tries to stop some some of the cherries from running down her back.

After her futile attempts, she groans and turns around to face me. "You know I've already showered once today." Despite her words, there's a smile on her face.

"Looks like you'll need another."

"I'm not the only one."

"Hey, I'm not the one with cherries down my back. I just need to wash my face," I point out. "You, on the other hand, are a mess."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Your own."

She thinks about it then shakes her head. "Okay, you got me there," she says before she walks over to the kitchen sink. She pulls a clean towel out of a nearby drawer and waves me over. I reluctantly approach.

"Don't tell me you're going to dip that in whatever's left of your ice cream and wipe it on me."

"I hadn't really thought about that, but now that you mention it…"

"Brittany!"

"Kidding."

She turns on the sink and runs the water over the towel. Once it is completely soaked, she wrings it out and turns back to me. She places two fingers under my chin and gently runs the wet towel over my face. Layer by layer, she removes the sticky mixture. When she finishes with my face, she soaks the towel again, wrings it out, and starts to clean off the little bit that had run down my neck.

My breath catches when the towel approaches my chest.

She looks up from her task and when her eyes meet mine, I nod so she knows I'm okay. She watches me a moment longer before she wipes the last bit of ice cream and chocolate off my skin, just below my neck.

"There. Good as new," she says before she places a kiss on my forehead. She lingers for a moment and I can smell the sugary whipped cream in her hair. She pulls away with a small smile on her face. Her voice comes out as a whisper when she asks, "Do you mind waiting while I go rinse off?"

"I think I can handle it," I whisper. Then I clear my throat and say, "Don't take too long or I'll pick a movie without you."

"I'll try to hurry," she promises before she rushes from the kitchen to the bathroom, leaving me smiling like an idiot in the middle of the trashed kitchen.

While Brittany showers again, I pour another cup of coffee and lean against the cluttered kitchen counter, trying to figure out what the kiss on my forehead could have meant, if it meant anything at all. Brittany and I don't exactly have a normal friendship. We've already developed a physical closeness that I've never had with anyone else. I sigh into my coffee cup. Do I even want it to mean something? The obvious answer makes me groan. I can already hear my mom saying, "I told you so."

The sound of the shower cuts off and when Brittany comes back to the kitchen, she's fully clothed with the towel draped over her shoulders. As if remembering the first time she came out of the shower, she blushes and ducks her head. When she looks back up, the blush is gone, but she has a tiny smile on her face. It falters, however, at the sight of the mess on the kitchen floor.

"Yeah, I guess we should probably clean that up," I say when I notice the guilty expression on her face.

It doesn't take long to clean up the mess. We probably could have left it for later, but the threat of Rachel coming home and yelling at us for leaving the mess was enough motivation to do it as soon as possible.

Once we finish mopping the floor and wiping down the counters, Brittany grabs several of the chip-filled bowls and carries them out to the living room. I bring the popcorn and my coffee and set them on the end-table next to the other bowls. It's a tight fit, but I manage. While I sit down and get the laptop ready, Brittany returns to the kitchen. She comes back with another bowl of ice cream, although this one isn't quite as decorated as the other. Her ice cream castle is missing its protective soldiers since all of them were wasted in our food fight.

I eye her suspiciously when she holds out the spoon, but she promises not to move it on me. Still, I hesitantly lean towards the spoon. When she keeps the spoon still, I finally take a bite and wince at the cold, sweet dessert that hits my tongue. She laughs at the slightly disgusted face I make before she digs into the ice cream herself.

"Disgusting," I say as I reach for my coffee. I take a large gulp of the bitter drink to chase away the taste of sugar she left on my tongue. After I put the cup back on the table, I ask what movie she wants to watch now.

She shrugs. "Anything not gross," she says. I roll my eyes and turn my laptop toward her so she can look through the list of movies. Her brow furrows as she scrolls further and further down the list and I realize that the only movie I have that I'm sure she'll like is Fried Green Tomatoes. Still, she closes her eyes and clicks on one.

"Interesting method," I say with a chuckle.

"I didn't know any of them."

Thankfully, it isn't one of the horror movies Puck and Sam asked me to download for them. It's R.E.D., and the moment Mary-Louise Parker shows up on the screen and starts talking to Bruce Willis over the phone, Brittany's face lights up.

"It's Ruth," she says as she bounces in her seat. She leans forward to get a closer look. "You didn't tell me Ruth was in this."

"Brittany, I didn't even know who Ruth was until a couple hours ago."

"Oh yeah," she says. "Well, I think I'm going to like this already."

And she does. She may keep her focus on Mary-Louise Parker's character throughout the movie, but I can tell she enjoys the story as well. She laughs throughout the majority of it while alternating between snacking on her ice cream and chips. As I catch glimpses of her smiling and laughing, I start to realize that movie night was a better idea than I originally expected. It's nice to see her without all the tension clinging to her body. I imagine I'm finally seeing the Brittany that Quinn must have known in high school.

When the movie ends and the credits roll, Brittany says wistfully, "I wish Ashley could have been here. She loved Ruth." There's still a smile on her face, but it's small and sad, and the mood for the night has suddenly sobered. "Not that I didn't like watching it with you."

"Hey, I wasn't worried about that," I say. "I already know I'm a great movie-watching partner." Her smile grows a little wider and she nods in agreement. The credits for the movie end and silence takes the place of the music that had been playing. "You can talk about her, you know. I don't mind."

The smile falters and she looks down to avoid my gaze. "I know I can. It's just hard to do it," she says with a sigh. Her fingers start fidgeting on her lap. After a moment of hesitation, I reach over and place a hand over hers. She doesn't pull away. "Ashley and I used to put on that Fried Green Tomatoes movies as soon as we got home from school," she says. "We'd do our homework with it on, but she was always better at getting hers done. I always got distracted." I laugh and she looks up from our hands to give me a weak smile. "She loved the book. She used to beg me to read it so we could talk about it together."

"Did you?"

She shakes her head. "She let me borrow it, but I kind of lost it. She was so mad at me," she says with a laugh. "She didn't talk to me for a week."

I rub my thumb over the back of her hand and wait for her to keep going. When she doesn't, I ask, "How did you get her to talk to you again?"

"I told her I would get her a new copy," she says. "I never did buy it for her. It just kept slipping my mind and eventually we both forgot about it." Her brow furrows and she says, "At least, she never brought it up afterwards. I hope she forgot about it."

"I think she was just happy to be talking to her sister again," I say with a chuckle.

"Maybe," she says, and the smile on her face grows a little more as she says, "She would have liked you a lot, Santana."

I roll my eyes and say, "Yeah, I'm sure my charming personality would have won her right over."

"It won me over, didn't it?"

My cheeks flush and it's my turn to look down at my lap. "Yeah well, you're different," I mumble. Two fingers gently press against my chin and coax me to look back up at Brittany. There's a question in her expression that she doesn't have to voice. "What I mean is, you don't—I mean, I don't—" I groan and look down again. My boobs are doing the weird sweaty thing they do when I get nervous because I can feel her eyes on me. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and count to five. After I open my eyes again and look up, she's still patiently waiting for me to get my thoughts together. I settle for, "You make me not angry."

"I think the word you're looking for is 'Happy'," she says with a smile.

"Yeah, that," I say and my cheeks burn even hotter, but I resist the urge to look down again.

She places her hand on my cheek and leans forward to gently press her forehead against mine. "I'm glad I make you not angry," she whispers. "You make me not angry, too."

And I think just maybe she's moving forward slightly to press her lips against mine.

But I'll never know because the front door swings open and Quinn comes stumbling inside with Mack.

Brittany and I quickly shift so we aren't in such a compromising position. Not that Quinn or Mack would have noticed. They're too busy trying to remove the other's coat. Brittany's eyes widen when Quinn pushes Mack against the wall and roughly kisses her as she unzips the dark leather jacket. Mack moans and when Quinn's hand starts to creep beneath her shirt, I clear my throat.

Quinn pauses and slowly turns her head towards the couch. When her eyes meet mine, I give her a thin-lipped smile and wave. Her cheeks turn beet red and she quickly buries her face between Mack's neck and shoulder. Mack doesn't seem fazed at all. In fact, there's a cocky smirk on her face even as she escorts Quinn across the living room to the hallway.

"Sorry about that," Mack says, although the expression on her face says otherwise. "Forgot you guys were doing your little movie thing tonight."

"That's okay," Brittany says with an amused smile on her face. "It looks like you two are having fun."

Quinn groans, but Mack grins. "Yeah, and hopefully we're about to have some more," she says with a wink. Quinn smacks her arm for that remark. "I mean uh… we're gonna have our own movie night or something."

"Stop talking now," Quinn says with a sigh. She takes a deep breath before she finally turns to face us. "Sorry for interrupting."

"It's okay. At least you're enjoying yourself," Brittany says, which only makes the blush return to Quinn's cheeks.

Before she can embarrass herself even more, she disappears down the hall and Mack eagerly follows. After we hear the door shut, there's a moment of silence before Brittany and I look at one another. It isn't long before we're both laughing over Quinn's awkward moment.

"I guess we'll be sleeping on the couch tonight," Brittany snickers once our laughter finally dies down. "I don't think Quinn will want us sharing her room while she has company over."

"Oh god. I don't think _I'd_ want to share a room with her while she has company over," I say with a shake of my head. Trying to get the subject off of Quinn and whatever it is she might be doing in her bedroom, I ask, "Did you see any other movies you'd want to watch?"

"You can pick the next one," she says, "but can we actually pull the bed out before we fall asleep?"

I'm not sure how she thinks she's going to fall asleep any time soon. Between her nap earlier and the mountain of sugar she ate during R.E.D., I'm convinced she's going to be up all night. Still, I nod in agreement and we both get up to remove the couch cushions. Once we have the mattress out of the couch and completely unfolded, she says she'll be right back. She goes to the kitchen and disappears down the hall. The sound of Quinn's startled yell makes me snicker to myself as I get comfortable on the mattress.

Brittany returns with two pillows and another blanket. She drops the pillows on the floor for a moment so she can spread the blankets over the mattress and me. After I'm completely covered, she climbs onto the bed, pillows in hand, and joins me under the blankets. She gestures for me to lean forward. I comply, and she slips both pillows behind me. After I lean back, I ask where her pillow is, and she answers by resting her head on my shoulder like she had earlier, only this time instead of holding my hand, she lays her arm over my stomach so she can pull me closer if she needs to. Once we're both comfortable, I bring the laptop over from the table so it rests on my covered legs. Using Brittany's method, I close my eyes and choose another movie. Brittany breathes a content sigh and scoots closer.

Overall, I'd say movie night has been a success.

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><p>I hope you all enjoyed the break from the angst this chapter. There will be a bit more fluff in the next chapter, but who knows how long good things last.<p>

Chapter title is from **Sober** by P!nk


	8. Chapter 8

**AN:** Sorry this took so long to write, but at least it didn't take me a year to update! Mentions of violence later in the chapter so be wary of that if it isn't your thing. It isn't graphic, but it's there. Sorry for any typos. I think I got the majority of them, but just in case, I'll go back over this later and fix any I might find. Hope you enjoy it, regardless of any typos you might find!

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><p><strong>Chapter 8:<strong> **The black thoughts have come again**

The morning after movie night, I quickly realize that Brittany should never attempt anything that involves the culinary arts.

For the second time since meeting her, I awake to the shrill screech of a smoke detector and the smell of something burning. I groan and squeeze my eyes shut as I pull the blanket over my head and roll onto my side, trying to ignore the harsh sound of the smoke detector. However, the sound is persistent and forces its way into my cocoon. Defeated, I sigh and sit up, my hair ruffled by my efforts to escape the shrieking alarm. After I rub some of the grogginess out of my eyes, I look into the kitchen and can't help but smile upon finding Brittany waving a kitchen towel in front of the smoke detector. Meanwhile, dark smoke rises from a pan on the stove. It's a familiar scene, only this time my mother isn't around to help her.

"I think it's safe to say whatever you've got on the stove is toast," I say, raising my voice to be heard over the alarm.

She stops waving the towel to look at me, her brow furrowed in confusion. "No, it's bacon," she says before the sound of the alarm grabs her attention once more.

While she starts waving the towel in the air again, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and take a minute to stretch. Muscles pull and joints crack, voicing their discomfort from sleeping on the flimsy mattress of the pullout couch. One day, Brittany and I will have to sleep in a real bed together that doesn't belong to Quinn. That thought gives me pause. I hardly know Brittany, and the things I do know about her don't quite add up to someone I should want to be involved with. Yet here I am, thinking of a future where we spend more nights sharing a bed. And last night, we had nearly kissed.

Am I that starved for physical contact? If so, why couldn't I just go to Aphasia like I normally would?

I worry my lower lip between my teeth as my thoughts veer in a direction I don't want them to go. Wherever this strange desire is coming from, it isn't stemming from some desperate need for another person's touch. I sigh and shake my head, trying to jostle the troubling thoughts from my mind.

Joining Brittany in the kitchen, the mess she has made on the stove becomes more obvious. Slick grease from the bacon covers the stove. A large pan on the right burner has a mountain of scrambled eggs piled in it, but they've been on the flame for too long; the yellow color is tinged with brown, not to mention half of the eggs are coated with specks of black pepper. The pan on the back burner has a pool of pancake batter bubbling. I grab the spatula off the counter and try to flip the pancake, only to have half of it tear apart while the other half sticks to the pan. Seeing that the breakfast Brittany has been trying to make is beyond salvageable, I turn off the burners before things can get worse.

"This was easier when your mom was helping."

Her voice, suddenly close, startles me. I turn to find her standing behind me, her eyes cast towards the floor while her fingers fidget. Even though she can't see it, I give her a small smile and place a hand on her forearm. I appreciate what she had tried to do for me, even if things hadn't turned out the way she planned. My thoughts flit back to the cookies she had made me a week ago and I wonder how Brittany managed to survive on her own for so long.

"How about we clean this mess up and we can start over?"

She briefly raises her gaze to meet mine before returning it to the floor. Slowly, she nods and reaches for one of the pans on the stove. As she stretches past me, I catch a glimpse of the red marks dotting the inner part of her arm. Last night, thoughts of her recently rocky past had fled my mind. We had been so wrapped up in having a nice time together, I had briefly forgotten what had brought us together in the first place. She had been so playful too, making it hard to connect her to the shy, self-conscious woman I've been used to being around. My smile widens slightly as sweet memories from the previous night spring to mind. I wouldn't be opposed to more movie nights like it.

With those pleasant thoughts in mind, I grab a pan as well and start scraping the contents into the garbage. Afterwards, we throw the used pans in the sink. While Brittany fills it with soapy water and I stand beside her waiting to rinse the pans, a blanket of familiarity falls over me. It just feels right, this closeness between us. The closeness itself, however, is foreign to me, and as she hands me the first pan to rinse, an old fear rises.

I glance at the taller girl, who is completely focused on scrubbing the pan in her hands and seemingly unaware of my gaze. Biting my lower lip, I return my attention to my side of the sink. Quinn had mentioned that Brittany had talked about me during that month after the first night we had met. And she had practiced being outside specifically so she could walk with me. That has to be a good sign. Still, the fear that she'll eventually tire of me and my so called 'prickly' exterior sits at the back of my mind.

As we're drying off the pans, a sleepy-looking Quinn trudges into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. She takes one look at the grease-covered stove and her eyes narrow. Brittany shrugs her shoulders and gives her a sheepish smile.

"Somehow my kitchen always ends up a mess when you're involved," Quinn says as she opens the fridge door, and I don't know if she's talking to me or Brittany. Maybe she means both of us.

"We're going to clean up after," Brittany points out, but Quinn's face still wears an annoyed expression, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. "We'll share, if you want."

Quinn seems to think it over for a moment as she stares into the refrigerator. Then, ever so subtly, she nods before pulling out a carton of orange juice and heading to the cupboard. After she fills two glasses, she reminds us to clean up whatever mess we make before disappearing into her bedroom once more.

"I don't know how you manage to live with her and the troll," I say as I start prepping the pans on the stove. I can feel Brittany's eyes on me, watching as I spread out strips of bacon on the largest pan. Looking over my shoulder, I meet her curious gaze and wave her over. She shuffles over to my side and studies my every move. "You know, I don't think you're such a bad cook, Brittany," I tell her as I turn the burner on low. "You just try to do too much at once."

"I just didn't want anything to get cold," she mumbles.

I nod and say, "Well, I appreciate that, but how about we take this one step at a time, yeah?"

And we do.

As I help Brittany with breakfast, showing her the best way to multitask while cooking, the familiar fear from earlier dissipates. I've never done anything like this with my other friends. Not even Mercedes. Watching Brittany whisk the pancake batter the way I showed her—her tongue poking out slightly as she concentrates—a strange feeling expands inside my chest; a warm one that makes me smile.

She looks up from the bowl of pancake batter and I try to force my dumb smile into a neutral expression, but I know I'm not quick enough when her cheeks turn red. I really know I've been caught when she asks, "Why do you always try to hide your smile from me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say as I turn towards the bacon still frying in the large pan. I turn the strips over and try to avoid the grease that pops and splashes. "I don't smile, especially not this early in the morning. I'm too grumpy."

"Okay," she says, but the tone of her voice suggests she doesn't believe me at all. Thankfully, she changes the subject. "So when do we start making the pancakes?"

"After this batch of bacon finishes."

Cooking the rest of the breakfast goes well. I let Brittany be in charge of the pancakes and tell her how to know when they're done. The first batch is a little over-done, but I don't mind. We'll just give those ones to Quinn and Mack. Once I finish with the bacon, I switch to the eggs and explain that Brittany doesn't have to put a mountain of salt and pepper in it to make it taste good. She looks skeptical, but nods anyway before returning her attention to her own pan. In the end, we manage to finish the breakfast with limited casualties.

After I make up a plate for Quinn and Mack—consisting of the slightly burnt pancakes—Brittany takes it to her friend's room while I load up plates for her and myself. A loud yell comes from Quinn's room, and when Brittany comes back, her face is red again and she's giggling. Something tells me she walked in on something she wasn't supposed to see. Once the small kitchen table is set, we take seats across from one another and enjoy the breakfast we managed to make together. It's not as good as my mom's—I've always lacked her mastery of the kitchen—but it isn't awful. Brittany doesn't seem to have any complaints.

The sound of forks tapping against ceramic plates fills the room. Sometimes, laughter from Quinn's bedroom drifts into the kitchen, but we stay quiet, enjoying the comfortable silence between us. Then, almost shyly, Brittany looks up from the lake of syrup on her plate, and asks what I'm studying at school.

"I'm in the university's medical program," I say, taken aback by the question. "Why?"

She shrugs and drops her gaze back to her plate. "We've known each other for a little while now and I never asked," she explains. I wait for her to say more, but she just pushes around some of the eggs with her fork, careful to keep them out of the syrup. Just as I'm about to go back to eating, she says, "I was wondering how you knew so much about how to help me that first night, so I guess that explains it." She looks up from her plate again, her lip caught between her teeth again. Finally, she says, "I think you'd make a good doctor. Is that what you want to be?"

I nod as I cut a piece off my pancake. "Doctors make really good money," I explain. It's the standard answer I give everyone who asks why I want to go into the medical profession. When I look up from my plate, however, she's staring at me, waiting for another explanation. Unable to hold that intense gaze, I return my attention to my breakfast. Seconds inch by, crawling along as I try to decide whether I should give her the not-so-standard answer. Finally, I let out a sigh and say, "My dad was an army medic when he was younger. When I was little, he would tell me stories about the soldiers he helped overseas." I take a bite of my pancake and shrug. "He kept helping people when he came home and I guess it kind of rubbed off on me."

Brittany smiles at my answer. "That's really sweet, Santana," she says. "You're really sweet."

My cheeks burn from the compliment. "Yeah well… Don't go telling people that," I mutter, which earns me a laugh from the other woman. "Hey, I'm serious! I have a reputation to maintain. Do you think I'd be able to scare the troll if she thought I was a softie?"

She shakes her head, but says, "Your secret is safe with me."

"Good," I say before I focus on my breakfast again. Silence fills the kitchen once more. As I get close to finishing, however, I ask a question of my own. "What made you so intent on making me breakfast this morning?"

"I guess I just wanted to thank you for spending time with me last night," she says. "This seemed like the best way to do it. I don't know if you've noticed, but words and I don't get along very well." There's a small smile on her face as she says it, but the way she says it makes me feel like she's disappointed in her inability to communicate the way she wants. "The stove and I don't seem to get along very well either."

"Hey, we seemed to do alright for ourselves."

"After you helped me," she says with a slight pout.

"Don't beat yourself up over it. You were just trying to handle too much at once."

She lets out a harsh bark of laughter and looks back down at her plate, viciously stabbing at the last of her eggs with her fork. "Why does it feel like that happens a lot?"

Suddenly, the conversation isn't as warm and comfortable as it was earlier. Still, I recognize this side of Brittany. I saw a glimpse of it the first night we met while we were lying in bed together. It's the side of her that lacks faith in her abilities; the side that keeps telling her she's stupid for trying to change.

Unsure of how to respond, I go with my instincts and reach across the table, placing a hand on her balled fist. "Sometimes it happens, Brittany," I tell her. "It's okay to ask for help."

"But that's all I seem to do," she says, bitterness tainting the sweet, shy voice I've grown so used to. "I ask Quinn for a place to stay and she gets in trouble with Rachel. I ask you to help get my stuff back and you get beat up for it." She pulls her hand away and drops it in her lap. "I keep asking for help and people keep… They keep having bad things happen to them."

I sigh and rub my temples. How the hell had this conversation taken such a wrong turn?

"First of all, you weren't the one who asked me to help with Rick. Quinn was the one who insisted. _You_ kept telling her to leave me out of it," I remind her. "Secondly, I don't think Quinn cared that Rachel had a hissy-fit. I think she just wanted her friend to be safe." Brittany scoffs before she scoots the chair away from the table. She takes her now empty plate to the sink and drops it in the soapy water. Even from my chair, I can see how tense her body has become. I leave my own plate at the table when I go to join her at the sink. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, you've been perfect all morning," she assures me, but her body is still tense and her tone is still bitter when she says, "It's me, not you. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I've been told talking helps," I offer. I place a hand on her shoulder, but she shakes her head and pulls away from my touch. For some reason, the action hurts more than it should. My hand drops down to my side and I ball it into a fist as I try not to think about my wounded feelings. "Brittany, whatever's bothering you, you can't just bottle it in. If you won't talk to me about it, at least talk to Quinn."

"I don't need to talk about it," she insists.

My eyes narrow. "You know, I used to think there were a lot of things I didn't need to talk about, too. One thing in particular was something I _really_ didn't need to talk about," I tell her. "It turns out, it wasn't that I didn't _need_ to talk about it, it was that I was scared to let it out. Like talking about it would make it more real and give it more power." At first, I'm not sure if she's listening, but then I pause for a moment too long and she looks at me, waiting for me to continue. "I bottled this one thing up for so long, it made me angry. Mostly at myself. I ended up pushing everyone away and in the end, all of my friends were gone and I had no one to blame but myself."

"This isn't a very happy story," she says in a strained voice.

"And I've told you before, I wasn't a very happy person," I point out. "I finally opened up to someone about my problem, though, and all of that anger I was holding onto? It went away." Again, I place my hand on her shoulder, only to have it shaken off once more. The strange tension that had been in her body earlier has left her, however, replaced with a lost expression on her face. "Seriously, Brittany, if something is wrong, talk to someone. It doesn't have to be me, but at least find someone." Her only response is to look down at the floor. Defeated, I pinch the bridge of my nose again. "Look, I have some errands I have to run today, but I'll be home later. If you decide you want to talk about it, you know where to find me."

When she doesn't respond, I sigh and head to the living room to grab my duffle bag of clothes and my computer. I try not to dwell on the mounting disappointment. Last night had gone so well, as had the first part of the morning, yet I had somehow managed to screw it up in the end by saying the wrong thing. To make things worse, I don't even know what I did wrong. After slipping the strap of my duffle bag over my shoulder, I look back at Brittany, hoping she'll say something before I leave, but all I get is silence.

Shaking my head, I open the door to the stairwell. As I close it behind me, I think I hear her say something along the lines of, "I don't know how," but when I don't hear anything else, I chalk it up to wishful thinking and trudge back up the stairs to my own floor, disappointed that our morning together hadn't ended with a hug like the morning with my family had.

The sour mood the morning had ended on clings to me even as I step through the door to my apartment. As if avoiding the figurative black cloud draping from my shoulders, Mercedes, Puck, and Sam keep their distance. It isn't the first time they've dealt with me like this and it most likely won't be the last. Rather than confront me like Sam had done the first time I came home in a similar mood, they stick to their strategy—taking cover on the couch in the living room—while I prowl the kitchen, a seemingly permanent scowl on my face as I pull out a blue tin from the cupboard so I can make the only thing that seems to make me feel better. The smell of coffee grounds that escapes the tin when I pull off the lid is a familiar comfort. Even as I scoop the grounds into the coffee machine, I start to feel a little better. Still, I can't help but wonder what I said that had made the pleasant morning nosedive like it had.

While the coffee burbles in the pot, I tap my fingers on the counter as I try to figure out what I could have done to make everything go so wrong. When no ideas are forthcoming, I scowl and ball my hand into a fist. Brittany told me I had done nothing wrong, yet it still feels like it's my fault. The coffee maker stops gurgling and I shake my head before pouring myself a cup. Even with the comforting beverage in hand, though, thoughts of the unexpected failure with Brittany linger at the back of my mind.

I'm halfway through my first cup, leaning against the counter and savoring the bitter taste, when Mercedes, apparently the only one brave enough to approach me at the moment, steps into the kitchen and joins me by the coffee machine. After pouring herself a cup and adding a little sugar, she turns her attention on me and waits. Despite my mood, I give her a small smile to show her presence is appreciated.

Finally, she says, "You didn't come home last night. I kinda thought you'd be in a good mood this morning."

"Yeah, I kind of thought the same thing," I say with a sigh. I stare at the contents of my cup for a moment, working through my thoughts. "I guess I'm just that good at ruining everything I touch."

"Santana Lopez, cut that out." Mercedes swats my arm with the back of her hand before stepping in front of me. "First of all, I may not know what happened, but when you walked through that door, you did not look like you usually do when you know you screwed up."

"Hold up. I have a specific look for that?"

Mercedes lifts a finger to shush me. "Second, I don't ever want to hear you say that again. If you're so good at ruining things, why are your friends still around? Why am _I_ still around?" I start to answer, but she cuts me off. "You can be brash as hell, but you're a good person, so stop getting so stuck in your head that everything starts to feel like it's your fault."

My hold on the coffee cup tightens and my eyes narrow. "How can you say that? You don't even know what happened."

"By the looks of it, neither do you," Mercedes retorts. "You may have a habit of putting your foot in your mouth, but you always know what it was you did or said." I look down to glower at the contents of my cup, but Mercedes taps my chin with the tip of her finger until I look up again. Once she has my attention, she smiles softly and says, "Sometimes it's not your fault, Santana."

I hold her gaze for a moment before ducking my head again. It's hard to believe people like Mercedes stick around for me, but here she is, and I'm grateful. I may not have been aware that I needed to hear those words, but Mercedes was, and she didn't hesitate to give them.

"Still think you ruin everything?" I shake my head and she laughs. "Good. Now stop thinking of your life as a Passenger song and come join us in the living room. The boys are still scared you're going to tear their heads off if they say anything."

I roll my eyes. "Of course they are," I say before finishing off my coffee. After rinsing out the cup and setting it by the sink, I turn back to Mercedes. "I'd love to join you guys, but that whole 'foot-in-mouth' syndrome you mentioned kind of reminded me that I have something to do today."

"Aphasia?"

"Aphasia," I say with a nod.

Mercedes doesn't bother to hide her amusement as she says, "Good luck with that."

The scowl returns to my face, but at least it isn't because of the foul mood I had been in when I first came home.

After the chat with Mercedes, I put my duffle bag in my room and get dressed for the trek outside. The sun has recently started to come out just in time for the end of spring break, so it's finally safe to ditch the hoodies and stick with just a t-shirt and jeans. In the living room, I mention that I'll be back soon, but if I haven't come home before the streetlights come on, they should text to make sure Aphasia hasn't killed me. Puck salutes and Sam gives me an 'Aye, aye, Captain', but Mercedes just shakes her head and tells me to get my ass over to Aphasia's.

Walking seems like the best option. Her building isn't far and it gives me time to gather my thoughts enough to decide the best way to apologize to Aphasia. However, I start to regret my decision to leave my jacket at home when a cool breeze tickles the bare skin of my arms, raising goosebumps in the flesh. It may have warmed up, but the wind still has a bite to it. It's too late to go back for the jacket though, so I press onward towards Aphasia's apartment, trying to work out my apology. None of the words seem right, though. Not when I'm halfway to her building; not when I get to the apartment complex; and certainly not when I'm standing in front of her door, hand poised to knock. I take a deep breath and decide to wing it.

I rap my knuckles against the heavy, metal door three times and wait.

And wait.

And continue to wait.

Scowling, I knock again. A shout comes from the other side, telling me to keep my pants on. Footsteps approach and a chain rattles before the door swings open, revealing a disheveled Aphasia fighting off a yawn. She's still in yellow short-shorts and a white tank top.

"I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"What the hell would give you that idea?" Aphasia asks as she rubs at a bleary eye with the palm of her hand and holds the door with the other. "Come to blame me for another shitty morning?"

I rub the back of my neck and look down at the floor, toeing the carpet. "Not quite," I mumble before looking up again. Aphasia leans against the door and purses her lips as she watches me, waiting. "I um… I came to tell you that I was, you know, wrong."

"You're going to have to be more specific."

The scowl returns to my face, but I force myself to answer. "I was an ass that morning I woke up late and I shouldn't have blamed you for everything that went wrong," I say, but she continues to watch me with an expectant expression on her face. I'm tempted to roll my eyes—I know she knows what I'm trying to tell her—before I say, "I'm sorry, okay? I shouldn't have acted the way I did."

"You sure suck at apologies," Aphasia says, but there's no malice in the words. "You didn't even bring me any 'I'm sorry' cookies."

"Do I seem like someone who bakes?"

Aphasia snorts and shakes her head, but she doesn't move from the door. "You come over just to apologize, and you don't even bring any apology cookies," she says. "I can't tell if that's brave or stupid."

"Actually, I kind of came over for more than just the apology," I tell her. She raises her eyebrows, curious, but waits for me continue. "See, I kind of need some advice about Brittany and—"

The door slams in my face so fast, I'm not even sure I saw it move.

I blink several times, trying to figure out what just happened, before pounding on the door again.

"Come back when you want to give me a_ real_ apology," Aphasia says, her voice muffled by the barrier between us.

I grit my teeth and lean my head against the cool metal. "How was that not a real one? I said I was sorry, didn't I?"

There's a moment of silence before the door opens again, and I stumble forward slightly into Aphasia, who appears far from amused.

"Santana, I'm not sure you know how an apology works or what even counts as a _good _apology," she says, "but I'll give you some advice: Asking for something right after saying you're sorry? Not a good one."

The door shuts in my face again, almost clipping my nose.

I groan and throw my hands up in exasperation. "Look, I didn't… I didn't apologize just because I needed something, if that's what you think," I say, eliciting a scoff from the other side of the door. I curse under my breath. This is not going as planned. "I really am sorry about how I acted, even if you don't help me. You didn't deserve to be treated that way."

"If you were so sorry, why'd you wait so long to come apologize?"

I sigh and rest my head against the door once more. "You know I'm not good at these things. I've never been good at them. And you're right. I don't know what counts as a good apology, but I'm trying."

Silence again. Then the door opens, slowly this time. "Would you be here right now if you didn't need something from me? Or did problems with this Brittany girl send you on over?"

"Both?" The response evokes another scowl and Aphasia looks like she's about to shut me out again, so I quickly add, "I would have been here eventually, but what happened with Brittany made me come over sooner rather than later. And not because I need advice about her, either." Aphasia stares at me, but at least she doesn't shut the door. "Can I please just come in and explain?"

She watches me a moment longer before rolling her eyes and opening the door wider. I give her a grateful smile and brush past her. She offers me something to drink as I sit on the couch, but I decline with a shake of my head. She shrugs before taking a seat beside me, an expectant expression on her face as she waits for my explanation. So I tell her, the same way I had that night I showed up at her door with bruises on my face. Except this time it isn't my face that's bruised, but rather something inside me. Something intangible.

I recount the night I had spent with Brittany and even mention that we had almost kissed, despite how hot my cheeks get speaking about it. She nods along, her lips twitching slightly as I relay the information about the kiss. She props her head up on the couch and listens as I describe the rest of the evening. When I bring up the shift in mood from the morning, however, she leans forward slightly to listen better. Something about telling Aphasia, who knows everything about the circumstances that led to Brittany and I meeting, lifts a weight from my shoulders.

Once I finish, she spends several seconds watching me, as if waiting for me to continue, before asking, "And what about this spurred you into gracing me with an apology?"

I look down at my lap and worry my lower lip for a moment, trying to find the right words to say. "Mercedes kind of made me realize that not everything is my fault and I can't fix those things," I say with a shrug, "but there are some things that _are_ my fault." I raise my head again and try to look Aphasia in the eyes as best I can as I say, "I have a bad habit of ruining relationships. I know we aren't dating anymore, but I don't want to ruin whatever it is we have going for us now."

To my surprise, Aphasia smiles. "I think it's called 'friendship', Santana."

"Is that what all the hip kids are calling it these days?"

She shakes her head, but the smile remains.

It feels nice, labeling what we have as friendship. I've spent so long not knowing what I was to Aphasia—or who she was to me—that finally acknowledging that we are, in fact, friends makes me feel a little better. A little lighter, maybe, now that I'm able to release some of the uncertainty I've been holding on to for so long.

"Yes, that's what everyone in the world has been calling it these days," Aphasia says. She then leans forward and places a hand on my shoulder. "And as your friend, I'm going to tell you that you're getting a little too deep in this Brittany thing," she tells me. I start to protest, but she cuts me off. "You almost kissed someone you barely know. I can't really fault you for that since that's how we started," she says, "but we both know that this is a completely different situation."

It's not the answer I want to hear, but I can't say that she's wrong. I bite my lip and look back at my lap. I don't know what kind of advice I was hoping to get from Aphasia, but I do know I had been hoping for something more… optimistic.

"You're kind of a softie, you know that, Lopez?" I jerk my head up to glare at her, but there's an amused smile on her face. "I'm not saying stop hanging around this Brittany chick. She obviously makes you happy for some reason, and that's kinda cool. I'm just saying pull back a little bit and think about what you're doing."

As much as I hate to admit it, she's right. I sigh and lean my head back against the couch so I can stare at the ceiling. Despite her advice—or maybe because of it—I feel a little more lost. Aphasia touches my arm and gives it a gentle squeeze before offering to let me hang out at her place for the rest of the day so I can have a space to figure things out, or at least stop thinking about it for a little while. It's what friends do, after all. I take her up on the offer, and we spend the morning—and the majority of the afternoon—watching and criticizing trashy reality television. It's a mindless activity that lets me forget about my feelings for Brittany for a little while.

I'm harshly reminded of them, however, when I return to the duplex later that evening and I find out from Puck that no one showed up at our door asking for me.

I know I shouldn't feel hurt by this. Brittany never said she would come by to talk, despite my offer. She isn't obligated to share her problems with me—and maybe I'm not equipped to handle them anyway—but I had hoped she would. I hold on to that hope, even as days start to pass by. Even after I return to my classes during the following week, I come home hoping that maybe she'll be waiting for me, ready to talk about what had bothered her so much the morning after our movie night. Not because I feel like I did something wrong—Mercedes definitely helped clear that issue up—but because I want Brittany to talk to someone about it before things blow up in her face like they had for me in high school.

And maybe I just really want that someone to be me.

I'm starting to lose that hope by the end of my first week back in class, but I try to keep it from affecting my behavior. I'm not sure how successful I am, given that Puck and Sam seem to be walking on eggshells around me. I haven't really told them what's wrong, but they must have some clue because neither one of them mentions Brittany around me.

Then, when I come home from my last class of the week, Puck greets me in the kitchen with a smirk and a shiny walkie-talkie in his hand.

"What's that for?"

"You," he says. After I hang my backpack on one of the kitchen chairs, he pushes it into my hands and says, "One of the girls from downstairs told me to give it to you. She already has it set for the right frequency."

My brow furrows as I study the hand-held radio in my hand. It's grey and oval-shaped with black, rubber handgrips on the sides. There's nothing out of the ordinary about it, except that it looks brand new. Turning it over, I laugh at a piece of masking tape across the back that has my name scrawled across it in large, loopy letters. I'm not sure what's going on, but there's only one way to find out. I leave Puck in the kitchen, an amused expression still on his face, and go to the privacy of my bedroom. After I situate myself on the bed, I slide the power switch for the walkie-talkie to 'on' and, after a moment of hesitation, I press down on the 'talk' button and say,

"Hello?"

Static crackles for a moment when I hold the button for too long. Silence follows after I release. I'm getting ready to press it again when Brittany's voice crackles from the speaker.

"Hi," she says. Static crackles for a moment and then, "Um… I didn't know how to say sorry for how I acted the other morning, but then I remembered that you seemed to like it when people talked over radios in some of those movies we watched, so I bought you these." More static follows before she says, "I really _am_ sorry, Santana. For that morning, and for not coming to talk to you after."

The static cuts out and I spend a moment staring at the device in my hand, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to say. Finally, I settle with, "You're supposed to say 'over.' Over."

"Sorry. I forgot about that," she quickly replies, and I can hear a hint of laughter in her voice. "I'm sorry. Over."

I shake my head at the response, but I can't help but smile. No one has ever done something like this for me before; especially not to apologize. I press the 'talk' button down again and say, "I suppose I can forgive you. Over."

There's another long moment of silence between us and I spend it picking at the loose strings of my blanket. Then, the radio crackles once more and Brittany's voice pulls my attention away from my bed cover.

"Santana, if I'm… well… If I wanted to talk to you about something over these things, do I still have to say over? Over."

"I think I can let it slide for now. Over."

"Okay," she says, and I think I can hear a hint of relief in her voice, "because um… I kind of want to talk about something now, and I don't know if I'd be able to remember to say 'over' once I was done. Over."

"Brittany, if that's the case, you can stop saying 'over' now," I say as I cross my legs and settle into my bed.

Whatever Brittany wants to talk to me about, I'm ready to listen.

Several minutes of silence pass before her voice crackles over the radio again. "It's about Ashley. About how… well, you know."

"How she died."

"Yeah," she says in a flat voice. Silence again, then, "I don't know how to do this, Santana."

I don't know if it's funny or sad that someone is asking _me_ how to open up about something. Still, I do the best I can and tell her to start wherever it feels right. I know from experience that sometimes the beginning isn't where something begins, but rather something to work back to later.

"We were in a dance class together," Brittany starts. "Well, she was actually a few classes below me since she was younger, but I used to show her the moves we were learning in my class once we got home."

"Give her an edge over her classmates. I totally get that," I say, and Brittany laughs.

"Something like that, yeah. Her friends always got mad at me for stuff like that because I wouldn't teach them," she says. Static crackles over the radio for several seconds, a sound I'm sure I'm going to become accustomed to during this conversation. Patience isn't exactly my strongest trait, but I think I can make an exception for Brittany. Finally, she says, "We were walking home after the dance class and we stopped by this little party store on the way to get slushies. It was just something we always did, you know?"

I nod, but then remember she can't see me, so I have to use my words. "Yeah. I used to pick Diego up from school and we'd stop for pizza every Friday," I say, hoping that sharing a little bit about me will help her feel more comfortable.

"That's sweet," she says, and I can imagine that tiny smile she always seems to give me whenever she tells me I'm sweet, but I can also hear the sadness laced in her voice. Now that I know she lost her sister, I wonder how she must have felt while she was spending time with my brother the night my family visited.

"You should tell that to Diego the next time you see him," I say with a laugh. She doesn't respond right away and I start to wonder if I said something wrong. I wish I could see her face so I could have a better idea of what she is feeling. I'm about to ask if she's still there when her voice crackles over the radio again.

"I'd really like to spend time with your family again someday, Santana."

"I'm sure that can be arranged," I say as I lean back against my pillows, "but for now, you're kind of stuck with just me."

"I don't mind," she replies before the line goes quiet once more.

"Brittany?"

"Sorry," she says, "I was just thinking."

"Take your time."

She does. In fact, several minutes pass by before she speaks again.

"Ashley and I stopped at that party store like we always did," she says, her voice softer than before. "It shouldn't have been different from any other time, but it was. Everything was different."

I want to encourage her to continue, but her finger is still on the 'talk' button on the other end of the line so I can't get through.

"We were getting our slushies when this group of guys came into the store," she finally continues. "There were four of them. White, well-dressed, my age." It sounds rehearsed, like she's gone over this several times. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I realize why it sounds that way. "At first, they were just messing around, tossing chip bags back and forth through the aisles, but then they split up," she says. "I didn't think anything of it. They were just being annoying teenagers."

Silence crackles over the radio again, and again I'm forced to wait without speaking because Brittany is still holding down her button. Maybe that's why she wanted to have this conversation over the walkie-talkies; so I couldn't interrupt her thoughts if she needed time to think. I'd like to believe I wouldn't have interrupted if we were together, but I can understand her need for the extra security.

"We were in the checkout line when it all happened. Three people were ahead of us and Ashley had already gone through half her drink while we waited for them," she finally says. "But then there were gunshots and those four guys were yelling for everyone to get down and I can't remember exactly what they said after that, but I remember Ashley spilled her slushie all over my arm when I pulled her down to the floor."

I hear her take a shaky breath and I wish I could be there to hold her hand or give her some kind of comfort, but this is how she wanted to tell me. I can wait.

"They were laughing, Santana. They were waving these guns around, screaming and scaring everyone, but they were laughing like it was some kind of game to them," she says. "I told her everything would be okay. I don't think she believed me, but she squeezed my hand and acted like she did. She trusted me, and I lied to her."

I stare at the walkie-talkie in my hand as I wait for her to speak again. When she told me her sister had died, this isn't what I had in mind. I had expected a car accident or some kind of sickness. Not this. My hold on the radio tightens as I think about a young, scared Brittany trying to reassure her sister amidst the chaos.

"There was so much yelling. One of the cashiers was yelling at the boys and they just laughed at him," she says. "One of the guys, he went up to the counter and told him to open the register. When he wouldn't, he pulled the gun and I covered Ashley's eyes. I didn't know what was going to happen and I didn't want her to see." There's another shaky breath before she continues. "The man at the cash register tried to wrestle the gun away from him and there were more gunshots and screaming and I remember pulling Ashley closer to protect her.

"When it was all over, the cashier was on the floor and the kid, he had this look on his face like… like he didn't know what had happened. Like it had stopped being a game. Then he was gone and his friends ran after him. They didn't even try to get the register open to take the money they had come for," she says, and I can hear the anger in her voice. When she speaks again, however, the anger is gone and her voice is soft again. "When I rolled off Ashley, there was this red stain on the side of her shirt and my arm, and I remember thinking it was just from her slushie at first, but it felt too warm. And then I… she wasn't moving, so I rolled her onto her back and she wasn't breathing."

"Brittany…" She can't hear me, but I can't stop myself from saying her name as if she can.

"I kept telling her to wake up. I told her she had to wake up because I was the older sister and that meant she had to listen to me, but she didn't. She didn't wake up, Santana. Not even when the cops and paramedics pulled her away from me."

The line goes silent once more, but this time she leaves it open for me to say something. There doesn't seem to be anything I _can_ say. Nothing that will make her feel better. Nothing that will bring her sister back. Still, she's expecting something, so I press down on the 'talk' button and say the only thing that comes to mind.

"Brittany," I say, "do you need me to come down there?"

"Please," she replies in a whisper.

It doesn't take me long to make the trip from my bedroom to the lower level of the duplex. The door is unlocked and when I step inside, Quinn and Rachel are nowhere to be seen, but neither is Brittany. The couch isn't pulled out into a bed, so I wonder where she could be. Then I remember she got a blanket from Quinn's room when I spent the night. I find her there, curled up on the mattress we brought from her apartment with the walkie-talkie tucked under her chin. Without a word, I lay behind her and slip my arms around her waist.

After the conversation we just had, I expect her to be crying or shaking or something, but she's not. She's quiet and her body stays still against mine except for the deep breaths I can feel her taking. At first, I'm not sure if she even realizes I'm there. Then she turns in my arms and buries her face against my neck. There aren't any tears against my neck, but I still give her a gentle hug and whisper soothing words in her ear so she knows I'm there.

It's all I can give her.

Judging by the way she moves closer, it's all she needs.

* * *

><p>Chapter title comes from the song <strong>Coming Undone<strong> by **Korn**, which is also where the fic gets its title from.


	9. Chapter 9

AN: I apologize for the wait. I won't keep you in anticipation any longer, though, so I'll do my bit at the end.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter 9: Full of broken thoughts I cannot repair<strong>

_The weight of the backpack weighs down on my shoulders and my grip on the straps tightens as I stare at the double doors of the high school. My heart beats out a staccato rhythm against my chest as students walk around me and hurry up the concrete steps. Some narrowly avoid brushing against me. Those particular students glance over their shoulders as they go up the steps, a nervous look in their eyes when their gazes land on the blue, white, and gold uniform adorning my small frame. Even if they aren't sure of my identity, the uniform itself is enough to inspire a healthy amount of fear and respect. Today, however, it doesn't feel like I deserve their fear or their respect._

_I feel small under their gazes instead. The weight of their eyes presses on me almost as much as the backpack hanging from my shoulders and I wonder if they know. I squeeze my eyes shut. My grip tightens around the straps of my pack._

_They can't know._

_Not yet.  
><em>_  
>Something smacks me in the back of the head, pulling me out of my troubling thoughts, and I turn to find Puck coming up beside me, his bag slung over his shoulder. One hand is suspiciously higher than the other. I rub the spot he smacked and glower at him, but he seems unaffected. Instead, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his blue and white letterman jacket and looks down at the cracked sidewalk beneath our feet. I can see his jaw shifting as he grinds his teeth.<em>

_"You sure you don't wanna wait to drop this bomb on everyone?"_

_"I'm not going to hide anymore, Puck," I tell him. "If I don't do this now, I'm going to explode." I shake my head and say, "Been there, done that. Don't want a repeat performance."_

_He looks up and there's a foreign expression on his face. I've never seen Puck scared before, but fear has to be what I see lurking in the back of his eyes when he asks, "And what if this blows up in your face, huh Lopez? What then? You know people are in there just waiting for an excuse to tear you down or worse."_

_"You think I don't fucking know that? That I don't hear all the whispering behind my back? I hear it all, Puck, and I'm fucking sick of it," I say. "I hid this shit for years to avoid the very thing that's happening now **because** I tried so hard to hide it." I take a deep breath and count for several seconds before meeting Puck's eyes again. "Don't worry. You should be safe from the shit-storm that's bound to hit after."_

_He rests his hand on my shoulder and leans towards me. "If that's what you think I'm worried about, you're an idiot," he says before gently squeezing my shoulder. "Let's get this over with, Lezpez. We hang out here any longer, people might think we're back together and after your little announcement, they'll think I'm the butch one."_

_I roll my eyes. "I'm not the one with the Mohawk, genius. Of course they're going to think you're the butch one."_

_Puck clutches at his chest and feigns a wounded expression. "You think my Mohawk makes me look butch?" Dropping the act, he gives me a playful shove up the steps. "Let's get this over with, I guess. Still don't know why you can't wait until the end of the year to tell everyone in a cool way, like in your valedictorian speech or something, but whatever."_

_I don't know how to explain my reasons to Puck. It's possible he would understand this need to prove myself—the need to test my resolve—but I don't know how to explain these things to him. Despite our long relationship, heart-to-hearts have never been big between us and the idea of sharing my feelings with him seems foreign._

_Still, he's sticking around even though he doesn't know what's going on in my head. Even though he's scared of what might happen afterwards. I pushed everyone away, but he came back. He knows my secret and he's still here. Now I'm going to make sure everyone at this shitty school knows. Maybe some of the friends I pushed away will come back. Or maybe the fact that I'm gay will push them further away. I shake the maybes away and head up the concrete steps towards the main doors._

_I have an announcement to make._

* * *

><p>"Santana?" Brittany's voice snaps me out of my reverie. I shift slightly so there's space between us. Enough space that I can get a good look at the quizzical expression on her face. "You went kind of spacey for a minute there."<p>

"Just, you know, thinking is all," I tell her, but the questioning look remains. "What? I do that sometimes," I say, not quite ready to divulge my thoughts. I may have come out years ago, but it's still hard to actually _be_ out, especially around girls I may have a thing for; and judging by the way my stomach knots around Brittany, I know I feel something for her, whatever that something may be. Even when the expression on her face falls, I can't bring myself to tell her what I had been thinking about, which I know isn't fair given what she's just told me, but there's still the nagging fear lurking in the back of my mind that she won't approve of this part of me.

Logically, I know she would be fine with it. She's still friends with Quinn, after all, who has been pining after the dwarf for who knows how long and is now boning Mack. The fact that we nearly kissed a week ago is also encouraging, but I still don't know what it would have meant to her if we had actually gone through with it.

If it would have meant anything at all.

My head may know that she wouldn't run even if she did know about these mixed up feelings I have for her—even if she doesn't return them—but my heart is afraid of breaking if I'm wrong. I can't bring myself to risk it right now.

Still, the look of rejection on her face tugs out the only answer I can give her right now. "Just thinking about the whole 'bottling stuff up' thing," I tell her. It's not much of an explanation, but she must realize it's the only one she's getting because she doesn't push for clarification. Instead, she scoots close to me once more, closing the small distance between us so she can hold me against her.

It's different from what has become our usual position of me holding her. Her arms are still thin even though she's put on weight since our first meeting. I'm almost afraid I'm going to break her if I allow too much of my own weight to rest on her arms, but I know that's a silly fear so I push it away and let her hold me the way she wants to. Then her fingers are running through the locks of my hair—the same way I would run mine through hers—and I stop worrying so much about whether or not I'm going to break her by letting her be the one to hold me for a little while.

"I think we're both still working on unbottling stuff," she whispers and I nod against her chest. She presses a gentle kiss against my forehead. It's another action that is starting to become familiar between us, but does nothing to unravel my tangled feelings.

Trying not to read into the action too much, I clear my throat and pull away slightly so I can look up at her. "You did a pretty good job today, you know," I tell her. She needs to know that I'm proud of her for sharing what she did; that I treasure the trust she placed in me by opening up to me. Her fingers stop their trek through my hair though, and I wonder if that had been the wrong thing to say. "Sorry."

"Don't be," she says with a hint of a smile on her face, even if it is tinged with sadness leftover from the current topic. "I just haven't talked about that stuff with anyone for a long time."

"How long is a long time?"

She ducks her head, but given our proximity it doesn't do much to hide her face when she says, sheepishly, "I talked to the police after it happened?"

"Brittany…"

She shrugs and goes back to running her fingers through my hair, although I think it's more for her comfort than mine. "I tried talking to my mom, but I don't think she wanted to listen. She started working more so we rarely saw each other. Then, whenever we were home together, it was like… I don't know, like she didn't see me, I guess, and I started to wonder if…" Whatever she used to wonder, she lets the thought trail off and shakes her head. "Maybe it's better that we never talked about it."

"I doubt that," I say. My thoughts drift back to the first conversation I ever had with my parents about my attraction to women. Back then it had been the scariest thing I had ever done, but telling them had lifted the burden of my secret off my shoulders. Now I can't imagine them not knowing and the idea of keeping something like that from them ever again seems impossible. "Where the hell was Quinn?"

"Yale," she says. "She came back for the funeral and stayed as long as she could, but she had papers and exams to deal with." She pauses for a moment, but her fingers continue to stroke the locks of my hair, as if she can gather the words she needs from the simple motion. "Quinn's my best friend and she had made it out of Lima like we had always wanted," she finally says with a sigh. "I couldn't ask her to give that up."

I had only lived in Lima until I was eight years old, but I remember the small-town vibes I used to get from it. Even as a kid, I knew that Lima was not a place anyone wanted to stay for the rest of their lives. Now that I'm older, I realize how lucky my family was to have been able to get out. It's a small town that's easy to get trapped in, so I guess I can't blame Quinn for leaving, or Brittany for keeping her from coming back once she made it out. For better or worse, Brittany had made it out, too, and something told me that the memories from that place would stop her from ever going back.

"I'm sorry you never got the chance to talk about it before now."

Brittany's hand falters, but quickly resumes its course through my dark tresses as she says, "I was supposed to talk about it at the trial, but I choked on the stand." Her hand stops and I feel her take a shaky breath. When she speaks again, her voice is tight. "I've always wondered if things would have gone differently if I had been able to talk about it then."

"Stop wondering," I tell her as I sit up on the mattress. She follows my lead, but she keeps her eyes downcast, unable to look me in the face. Judging by the way her shoulders sag, those thoughts aren't going to be leaving any time soon. I can at least try to chase them away for a little while though, so I take her chin in my hand and coax her into looking at me. "Something tells me you already know that living in 'maybes' and 'what ifs' is exhausting," I say. She nods and, after a moment of hesitation, I lean forward and brush my lips against her temple. It's a small action that she has done to me several times now, but my heart still pounds against my ribcage as I pull back, chewing the inside of my lip as I wait for whatever reaction she might have. I'm tempted to breathe a sigh of relief when I see pink coloring her cheeks and a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Try to stay away from those thoughts, okay?"

She nods before leaning against my side. "I wish there was something I could say besides thank you."

"Just don't bake me any more cookies," I tease. To my surprise, she pokes me in the side.

"I worked hard on those," she says, but the smile that had been fighting to appear moments before has finally won the battle and spread across her face. "I'm sure Puck and Sam would like it if I made more."

My nose crinkles in disgust. "I'd rather not talk about Puck and Sam's gross eating contests, thanks," I tell her. She laughs and loops her arms around one of mine. Her fingers trail along the back of my hand and up my forearm then back again. For a moment, I'm lost in the sensation. Then the memory of our conversation creeps back into my thoughts. Brittany's hand is halfway to my elbow when I take it in my own and give it a gentle squeeze. "Are you alright now?"

On the surface, it shouldn't be a difficult question to answer, but we both know it's several questions bundled into one. To my relief, however, she nods against my shoulder.

"I think I'm going to be okay, Santana," she says with a content sigh.

Unfortunately, I can't spend the whole day with her the way I'd like to. Other responsibilities like homework and studying mean that I have to go back home. I can, however, wait for Quinn to get home. While we wait, Brittany and I move from the bedroom to the kitchen, where I make myself some coffee—Quinn and Rachel just bought a new tin—while Brittany heats up water in the microwave for hot chocolate. I tell her it tastes better with milk, but she just shakes her head and sticks with the water.

We share the drinks at the kitchen table once they finish brewing. I offer Brittany a sip of my coffee, knowing she doesn't like it, but she takes a sip anyway and I laugh at the disgusted face she pulls. She gives me a sip of her hot chocolate in return and I tell her it would have been better with milk, even if it actually does taste better her way.

By the time Quinn finally slips through the front door, a black camera bag slung over her shoulder and her phone in her hand, pressed against her ear, Brittany and I have slowly helped each other finish our drinks. Quinn waves at me with her free hand as she gives commands to whoever is on the other end of the line, apparently no longer surprised by my presence in her home. I'm still not sure where we stand, but I guess as long as I'm in Brittany's good graces, I'll be in hers as well; especially after the incident with Rick the Dick.

Once Quinn hangs up the phone, I say my goodbyes. Brittany stands up with me and takes the coffee mug I had been using, her hand lingering on mine. She promises to talk to me again soon as the cup slides from my hand to hers. I can't stop the smile that forms, so I quickly nod my approval before saying another rushed goodbye and hurrying towards the door to the stairwell so I don't have to see the knowing look on Quinn's face that is bound to be there.

Over the following weeks, the conversations Brittany and I have over the walkie-talkies become a normal occurrence, increasing in length and frequency as the days pass. I develop the habit of coming home from class, grabbing a bite to eat, and heading to my bedroom to do homework or study while I wait for Brittany's voice to crackle over the radio.

Some days take longer than others because of her work schedule.

Sometimes we're both so exhausted from the day that we can only manage a few words to one another.

Most days, however, the walkie-talkie sits on my desk next to my books for easy access while we talk. It stays there until I finish my homework. It then goes with me to the bed, where I sit cross-legged with my back against the headboard, a pillow on my lap for me to fidget with while Brittany and I talk. We still have our movie nights as well, but those tend to involve less talking and more touching—little touches that may or may not mean something, but I don't know for sure because I'm too afraid to ask. While I enjoy the physical closeness we have during the movie nights, the walkie-talkies give us both a chance to talk about things at our own pace.

Usually, we talk about little things. It's how I learn that her favorite color is purple, but she had been stuck with a yellow room when she lived in Lima. It's also how I learn that she later painted over those walls with varying shades of purple polka dots that her mom made her cover with blue. It's how she learns that it freaks me out when things glow in the dark. It's also how she learns that I can't handle horror movies, which is why they're never on my computer for movie night.

It's how I learn that she still gets anxious at work. It's also how I learn about the burly guy who works with her, who seems scary at first, but he's actually like a big teddy bear. It's how I learn he goes out of his way to make sure she's alright when she starts to feel uncomfortable at the store. It's how I learn his name is Dave, and I start to wonder if I've always hated that name or if it's a recent development.

My dislike for this guy I've never met carries over to my life outside my friendship with Brittany. It spills into conversations with Puck and Sam, who simply look at each other and shrug, unsure of what to say to ease my fears. I try not to complain about Mystery Dave to Mercedes since she'll chastise me for acting like a child. Then she'll tell me to ask Brittany if there's anything going on between her and Dave and, while I'm at it, I should ask her about us. I'd rather not have that discussion with Mercedes because I hate that look she gets on her face when she knows she's right. Despite my best efforts, however, the topic of Brittany and Dave does get brought up while Mercedes and I are spending an afternoon at the mall.

It starts in the bookstore of all places.

After browsing several clothing stores that are too expensive for both of us, Mercedes drags me to the bookstore so I can help her search for a children's book for one of her neighbors back home. I roll my eyes when she leads me towards the children's section.

"Look, Wheezy. I don't know anything about your neighbor's kid, so no, I will not stand here in the kid section and look at picture books with you," I tell her, crossing my arms over my chest so she knows I'm serious.

"I thought you'd be an expert on Satan-spawn," she teases. I glare at her, but she waves it off. I must be getting rusty because there used to be a time when that glare actually worked on her. "If you're going to be all embarrassed about this kid section thing, then fine. I'm not going to force you to be a helpful friend."

"Thanks," I say before turning on my heel and heading for one of the more advanced sections of the store. She calls after me and I chuckle to myself. She probably hadn't expected me to take her seriously, but there is no way I'm going to read variations of "See Spot Jump" for an undisclosed amount of time for some kid I don't know.

While avoiding my best friend responsibilities by browsing other sections, my attention is drawn to one book in particular. The cover is blue with an image of an old restaurant on the cover. It's the yellow lettering of the title that really catches my eye, though. I pull the paperback off the shelf and run my thumb over the raised letters before turning it over to read the summary on the back. I'm so engrossed in the summary, I don't notice when Mercedes approaches me.

"Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café?" Her questioning gaze shifts from the cover of the book to me.

"I've heard good things," I tell her as we head towards the cashier. After the pierced cashier hands me the bag with the book and the receipt, I catch Mercedes gaze locked on the bag. "What?"

"It's nothing," she insists. Yet she goes on to say, "I just haven't seen you pick up a book from here in ages and that one's not really… well, you. I'm just trying to figure out who got you to like them enough to buy them something."

I hate that she knows me so well. Scowling, I say, "Hey, am I hassling you about the book on sex positions you oh so subtly picked up?"

"I-I did not," she objects, but she shifts the plastic bag slightly so it's hidden behind her back. Still, she knows she's caught. She sighs before glaring at me. "I didn't see anything and neither did you."

"Trust me. I don't want to know what kind of shit you and Trouty Mouth are experimenting with in the bedroom so blocking that book out of my memory will be cake," I say as we leave the bookstore. We maneuver around throngs of people, occasionally brushing against strangers because of the crowded space. Aside from the overpriced stores, the swarms of people that often fill the mall are the worst part of shopping here. Still, Mercedes and I manage to escape to the food court relatively unscathed.

The same can't be said for our wallets.

The book hadn't been expensive, but some of the new shirts and jackets had put a significant dent in my spending money for the week. Not that I'm irresponsible with my money, but I'm sure my parents would appreciate it if I shopped at resale shops for my hole-y jeans instead of designer stores. The book, however, is the purchase I'm most pleased with and judging by the way Mercedes keeps side-eyeing me, I'm not doing a good job of keeping my excitement hidden. As we wait in line for the burger stand, her gaze drifts down to the bag from the bookstore.

"Look, it's just for a really good friend," I tell her.

"Right," she says as the line inches forward, "and since you won't share, I'll just have to guess which super special friend you're buying it for. I'm sure it won't take too many guesses. Blonde hair, blue eyes, tall, and-"

"Watch it, Wheezy."

"I don't know why you feel the need to hide this stuff from me," she says with a roll of her eyes. "You spend your nights talking to her through that walkie-talkie and when you aren't doing that, you're watching movies with her. Now you're buying books for her."

"Friends do stuff like that all the time."

"Oh yeah?" Mercedes crosses her arms, the bags in her hands crinkling at the movement. "When was the last time you and I spent the entire night talking on the phone?" When I can't answer the question, Mercedes shakes her head. "See? Brittany is not just a friend and you know it."

"She is," I insist. "Now will you drop it?"

"That depends," she says. "Can you at least admit that you have a thing for her?"

"Jesus Christ, Mercedes, yes. I have a thing for her. I have a big ol' lesbian crush on her and I don't know why," I say a little too loudly. Heads turn at the word 'lesbian' and I decide it's probably a good idea to continue the conversation in a quieter voice. "Are you happy?" I hiss as we approach the counter.

"For now," she says before turning to the cashier and placing our orders. I try to pay for my own, but she hands the cashier a twenty before I can even get my wallet out. I can't be too angry with her for paying. I just see it as her way of rewarding me for telling her how I feel, even if she had to drag it out of me.

Once our orders are ready, I carry the tray to an open table and start dividing the food between us: Tots and a burger for Mercedes, fries and a chicken sandwich for me. In between bites of food and people-watching, she continues our conversation from the counter.

"So this thing between you and Brittany—"

"There isn't a thing between us," I tell her. "Do I like her? Yeah. But we haven't really talked about this stuff," I say. I finish off the rest of my sandwich and wipe my hands with a napkin. "And now there's this guy she works with…"

"Seriously, Santana?" Mercedes asks with a roll of her eyes. "Have you even asked her about this guy?"

"Not exactly," I say as I shift my attention to my remaining fries on the tray.

"Have you at least talked to her about how you feel?"

"Well…"

"That's a no." Mercedes shakes her head and pops the last of her tots into her mouth, then washes it down with some of her Coke.

"We kind of almost kissed one night."

"Let me guess: You never talked about it?" My silence must be answer enough because she then says, "You nearly kissed, Santana! How could you not discuss something like that?" I start to talk—ready to tell her to fuck off—but she holds up a hand to cut me off. "I know, I know. Emotions are scary. _Feelings_ are scary. And if Brittany hasn't brought the kiss up either, it sounds like you're not the only one being a baby about the situation."

I huff, cross my arms over my chest, and distract myself with the crowds of people walking past because I can't meet Mercedes's gaze. We both know she's right, but these things are easier said than done. Not to mention the question of whether or not I want to be in a relationship right now. The end of the semester is not the best time to start pursuing anything romantic. The way Mercedes talked about us earlier, however, made it seem like Brittany and I are already dating, not to mention some of the remarks Quinn makes whenever I come down for movie night. I take a deep breath. Mercedes is right. Feelings are scary. And stupid.

A hand on my shoulder makes me look up and I find Mercedes standing beside me, tray in hand.

"If you guys talk tonight, you should at least try to ask about Dave," she suggests. I sigh in defeat and she smiles, knowing that she's won. "Baby steps, Satan. Baby steps will make talking to her about feelings way less scary, I promise."

"If they don't, I'm putting shaving cream on you while you sleep," I threaten as I get to my feet so we can leave.

"Maybe I should tell Sam to spend the night at my place for the next couple of nights then, just in case," she says with a laugh. She dumps the contents of the tray in the trash and leaves the tray on top of the receptacle. Then, with a reassuring smile, she places a hand on my shoulder and says, "Just ask her, Santana. Otherwise you'll never know."

"I'll ask her," I say, but the thought of having my fears about Dave confirmed makes my heart hammer in my chest and my palms itch. I can only imagine what a mess I'm going to make by asking, but Mercedes is right. I'll never know for sure if I don't push myself to ask a simple question.

I spend the rest of the time at the mall with a new sense of determination driving me. However, by the time we reach the subway with our shopping bags, the determination—and the bravado that had come with it—is starting to dwindle. Halfway to our stop, my leg starts bouncing in place and the woman sitting on the other side of me keeps glaring because I keep jostling her. Mercedes reaches over and places a hand on my knee. Whether it's to comfort me or to get my leg to stop bouncing, I don't know, but I appreciate the gesture.

The walk from the subway station to the duplex helps ease some of the nervous energy coursing through me, but it doesn't last long enough. We're back at my apartment far too soon and all I have to distract me from my nerves is putting away the clothes I bought. That takes a whole two seconds, leaving me with nothing to do but wait for Brittany's voice to crackle over the walkie-talkie. I could go out to the living room and kill time with Puck, Sam, and Mercedes, but I can only imagine the strange looks I'd get if I carried the walkie-talkie out with me, so I opt to sit on the edge of my bed, the book I had bought for Brittany resting in my lap.

I trace the title on the cover again, enjoying the way the raised letters feel under my fingers. Even if Brittany does have a thing for that Dave guy, at least I'll have been the one to get her this. And if she doesn't have a thing for Mystery Dave, maybe the book will be a good way to start a conversation about how I feel and, hopefully, how she feels. I smile at the thought.

Maybe things won't be so bad.

It isn't the radio crackling that pulls me out of my thoughts, but a loud, incessant knocking at the front door. Startled, I jump slightly and the book falls to the floor. My brow furrows in confusion. I don't think Brittany and I are supposed to meet for movie night tonight—it's her late shift at work—but maybe she changed her mind. Or maybe it's one of Puck or Sam's friends pounding on the door. Brittany normally doesn't knock that loud. Or obnoxiously.

I pick the book back up and set it on my bed, hiding it beneath my blanket just in case it _is_ Brittany knocking, then go out to the kitchen to answer the door, flipping the light off in my room as I leave. Puck, however, is already standing at the door. I can see a shock of blonde hair over his shoulder, but it's a shade too dark to be Brittany's.

"Quinn?" I say when I reach the door. She turns from Puck to me, her hazel eyes wide as she tries to look over my shoulder. Puck seems relieved to have me replace him at the door. He doesn't do well with panicking women. "Everything alright?"

"Is Brittany here?"

"No," I reply, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach that forms at her words. "Quinn, what's going on? Isn't she supposed to be on her way home from work?"

"She's supposed to be, yeah," she says, running a hand through her short locks. "I went to pick her up so she wouldn't have to walk home in the dark tonight, but she wasn't there. Dave said she went home early because she wasn't feeling well," she explains. She takes a shaky breath and something tells me she's barely maintaining her composure. "I was hoping she came here, but I guess she didn't and she's not at home and Rachel hasn't seen her since this morning." She closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. When she opens her eyes again, they're glistening slightly. "She's gone again, Santana, and I don't… I don't even know where to look."

Before I know it, Quinn has her arms around me and she buries her face in my neck. Slowly, I bring my own arms up and rest them on her shaking back. I rub my hand in small circles over her back and try not to think about the wetness I can feel on my neck.

"We'll find her, Quinn," I say. I don't know how I manage to keep my voice from shaking. "I promise we'll find her."

I can only hope I'm not going to break that promise.

Quinn pulls away and delicately wipes the wetness from her cheeks with the tips of her fingers. I pretend not to see.

"I can't lose her again," she says in a quiet voice after she wipes the last of the tears away.

"We won't," I tell her, but it's hard to believe the words. It's a big city and she could be anywhere. Thoughts like that aren't going to help, though, so I try to focus on a plan of action. I turn towards the living room, where my friends are trying to look interested in anything but the conversation between Quinn and me. Given that Puck is staring intently at the stained carpet, they don't do a very good job pretending. Mercedes and Sam are a little better, at least focusing on the television, but there's no sound coming from it so it's either muted or off.

When I turn back to Quinn, she seems to have her emotions under control again. It's scary how easily she can slip back into that mask. "Just… give me a second and we can go, okay?"

She nods and I step back, allowing her inside our half of the duplex for the first time. While she waits in the living room, I go back to my room. Despite what I had said to Quinn, there's a tight feeling in my chest as I search for the jacket I had been wearing earlier. I can't help but wonder if we really will find Brittany. If Quinn doesn't know where she is, how the hell am I supposed to know? How am I supposed to be any help at all?

Quinn's words from the first time she came looking for Brittany come back to haunt me. I'm not an expert on Brittany. As much time as I have spent getting to know the missing blonde, I still don't know anything that could help us find her, and the feeling of uselessness weighs heavy on my chest.

The door to my bedroom creaks open and I stop my aimless searching, which, truthfully, had turned into aimless pacing. Puck's form fills the doorway and his sudden presence pulls me out of my thoughts enough to realize that my cheeks are wet. I swear under my breath and wipe at my eyes, but Puck's already seen the tears.

"I'm fine," I say before he can ask.

"Dude, I'm no expert, but I think you're the furthest thing from fine," he says as he steps inside. Thankfully, he closes the door behind him so no one else can see my emotional distress. He hesitates for a moment before he takes another step forward and places his hands on my shoulders. "Lopez, what's going on?"

I shake my head and look down at the floor. "Don't worry about it, Puck," I say. I want to tell him it's not important or that it doesn't matter, but the words catch in my throat and I can't seem to dislodge them. Brittany_ is_ important and she matters more to me than I thought she would. And now she's missing.

"Too late," he says as he pulls me closer. His arms slip around me and before I know it, I'm sniffling against his chest while he holds me in a rare hug. He doesn't say anything until I finally pull away and wipe my eyes again. "I don't know what's going on," he says, "but if you need some help, I've got your back, Lopez." He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze and adds, "We've _all_ got your back."

"Thanks," I say. "Can you guys just keep an eye out for Brittany in case she comes home before Quinn and I do?" Puck's blank stare reminds me that he doesn't really know the girls who live downstairs. "The other blonde, Puck," I remind him.

"Oh. Yeah, sure. We can do that."

I sigh and run my fingers through my hair. Now that I've released some of the tension, I can think straight. I can focus. I can finally see that the jacket I have been searching for has been hanging on the back of the door. I release a shaky breath as I try not to think about what a mess I am. "I'll be back sometime tonight," I tell Puck as I head towards the door. I pull the jacket off the hook and Puck follows behind me as I step back into the kitchen where Quinn is waiting with Mercedes and Sam. "You ready?"

Quinn nods and whispers a quick goodbye to my friends before she leads the way out the door and down the stairs. On the way down, she tells me that Rachel is already waiting in the car.

"I was under the impression the troll didn't give a damn," I say, my voice mixing with the echo of our steps bouncing off the walls.

"Drop it, Santana," she replies as we reach the landing. "Now isn't the time."

She's right, but I can't help myself. It's so much easier to make jabs at Rachel than it is to think of Brittany being missing and what she may be doing. I want to believe she just needed space from everyone. I want to believe the last few months have made a difference for her; that _I've_ made a difference for her.

Just as Quinn said, Rachel is waiting in the passenger seat of the red 'Bug and already has the engine running. Quinn takes the driver seat and Rachel moves her seat forward so I can slip into the back.

"Quick question," I say as Quinn pulls out of the driveway. "If Frodo's with us, who's going to be here if Brittany comes back before us?"

"Finn's home," Rachel replies before she turns in her seat to face me. "And I understand this is a stressful situation, but I would appreciate it if you stopped using me as a verbal punching bag. I'm here to help."

"Are you? Are you really?" I can't stop the sneer that forms on my face.

"Santana, cut it out," Quinn says in a sharp voice as she cuts the wheel to the right.

"No, I want to know what the hell she's doing here." I turn back to Rachel and say, "You've been against Brittany since the beginning. You straight up said you weren't her friend." Rachel's nostrils flare and she opens her mouth to say whatever indignant response she can come up with, but I cut her off. "No wonder she took off again. If I were stuck living with you, I'd probably go AWOL, too."

"That's enough!"

Quinn's voice cuts through my words, but not before they have the desired effect. The corners of Rachel's mouth dip into a frown and she quickly turns around, but I can still see her face in the rearview mirror; I can still see the way her lip quivers as the meaning of my words sinks in. I shouldn't have said them, but it's too late to take them back, so I cross my arms over my chest and look out the window at the darkening sky, trying to figure out what the hell use I'm supposed to be just sitting in the backseat of Quinn's janky Slugbug.

I should have taken the truck. We could have covered twice as much ground. Then again, I wouldn't know the first place to look for Brittany. That fact is enough to remind me that I don't know this part of the blonde I've grown so close to, but Quinn does. From what I can tell, she's been in this situation countless times, and as much as I wish I knew where to find Brittany, I also hope I don't end up as well-practiced as Quinn.

A cellphone goes off and all three of us startle at the sudden sound. She answers and I recognize Mack's voice over the speaker.

"I got nothing at the apartment," she says, and Quinn sighs. "I tried knockin', but no one answered, so I uh… let myself in… and no one was home." Quinn doesn't bother asking how Mack managed to get in. Instead, she thanks Mack for checking the place out. She's about to hang up when the woman on the other end asks, "Do you want me to keep checkin' around the place? Ya know, just in case she's nearby."

"I… Yes, Mack. That would be great. We'll be there soon," Quinn says. After she hangs up, she tosses her phone into one of the empty cup holders then runs her hand through her hair, slowly settling back into the aloof mask she had donned earlier, but her knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

Then Rachel's hand is on Quinn's shoulder and her grip on the steering wheel loosens and I realize Rachel is here for Quinn, not for Brittany.

She's here because they don't know what we'll find when we find Brittany. My stomach twists into a knot. Or maybe she's here because they both know exactly what we'll find. Either way, I regret my words from earlier even more.

With traffic, it takes us nearly an hour to get to upper Manhattan and Brittany's old apartment. After we find a space to park near the complex, Quinn calls Mack. Several 'okay's later, she hangs up and leads the way to one of the alleys nearby. I tug my jacket tighter around my torso to ward off the cool night air and the uneasy feeling settling on my shoulders. Upper Manhattan is not a place I want to be at nightfall and it's certainly not a place I want Brittany to be.

If I thought it was dark out in the streets, the alley we meet Mack in seems to be blanketed in shadow. She rubs the back of her head when we approach and says, "I tried lookin' in all the alleys near here, but she's not in any of 'em and none of the bums have seen her."

"It's okay, Mack," Quinn says, and the other woman visibly relaxes. "If she's not around the apartment, she has a couple other places here that she tends to gravitate towards."

"So we split up and cover four times as much ground," I chime in.

Quinn shakes her head. "Split into two pairs," she says. I start to object, but she cuts me off. "This isn't the best place to be wandering around at night alone," she explains, and I hate that she's right. "Trust me, Santana. If she's around here, well… she's probably not going anywhere soon."

Just like that, the idea that Quinn might have any hope for a positive outcome to the night is shattered. For once, I'm the one holding out hope that there will be a happy ending, and I'm not sure how that happened.

"You don't know that," I say through gritted teeth. Rachel places her hand on my forearm, but I pull away and take a step back. "For all you know, she could be back home by now, eating that fucking ice cream monstrosity she loves so fucking much. She could be watching that damn movie with the fucking bee charmer in it and wondering why I'm not there with her yet."

"Santana…"

"No, you know what? Screw all of you," I say. Quinn looks like she wants to say something, but I don't give her the chance to finish. "Screw your fucking buddy system, too."

I turn on my heel and start towards the entrance of the alley, but I can still hear them talking behind me. Whatever hushed discussion they were having, it's followed by the approaching sound of footsteps. By the time I reach the sidewalk, Rachel has managed to catch up to me.

"Go away," I say, a scowl etched into my features.

Rachel doesn't miss a beat. "Quinn's right. It's dangerous to wander the streets alone."

"So she sent you to be my guard dog?"

"That, and you don't have Quinn's phone number," she says. "After all, you have to have some way to contact her if you find Brittany."

"We're _not_ going to find her here," I say in a low voice. "And I'm going to search every damn alley to prove it."

"Okay," she says, nodding her head.

"Okay?"

"Yeah," she says with a shrug. "After all, who am I to take away your faith in Brittany?"

"I'm glad we're on the same page."

"Although, I do have a bit more experience with Brittany's history," she adds, "and to be honest, all the patterns from her history point towards an unpleasant outcome for tonight and—"

"I swear to god, if you don't stop talking, I'm going to stuff you under a bridge."

"Sorry," she says, and—thankfully—goes quiet once more.

The first alley we search is littered with broken bottles and busted garbage bags. Pieces of newspaper and old wrappers stick to the bottom of my shoes and glass crunches under my steps. Despite the awful conditions, there are still boxes set up against the walls of the surrounding buildings. Sometimes there are only more newspapers stuffed inside, but other times, there is a person sitting beside the box with worn out signs beside them.

I've seen these people before.

I've ignored them before.

I wonder how many times I would have walked past Brittany if I ever saw her like this before I knew her.

The second alley we walk down is barely cleaner than the first. There's not as much broken glass to worry about, though. Rachel daintily steps around the scattered trash, but somehow manages to keep up with my quick pace.

"Santana," she starts, and I roll my eyes but don't cut her off. "I know you think I don't care about Brittany and what you said in the car—"

"Was a dumb thing to say."

"Well, yes, but I just want to clarify that, even though I'm not very close to Brittany, I do care what happens to her," she says. "In fact, I've been pleasantly surprised by the change of behavior your relationship with her has caused." She shrieks just as we reach the end of the alley and I look over in time to see a rat run past her. "A-As I was saying, I am not close to Brittany, but even I can see what a positive figure you've been for her in recent months."

"Is there a point somewhere in there?"

"My point, Santana, is that whatever we find tonight…" She trails off and I look over to find her staring at her shoes, possibly searching for whatever point she may have had. She sighs, looks up, and says, "Just don't forget about the girl you've been close to, okay? No matter what we find, hold onto that memory of her." She attempts the smallest of smiles and adds, "Just in case you don't prove us wrong, obviously."

It's almost sweet of Rachel, but I still don't like what she's implying, so I simply nod and start down the next alley.

Night falls completely, and I have to pull my jacket tighter against myself to keep from shivering. It may be the beginning of spring, but winter still clings to the night air. Soon, Rachel and I have to pull out our phones and use the flashlight attachment to see down the dark alleys. The bright light flickers over several shivering forms curled up under large coats. Some people have fires burning in bins, which I'm sure is less than legal, but I don't plan to report them. The fires provide light and warmth during our search, both of which I'm grateful for.

I'm not sure how far we've walked, but I do know my feet are killing me. I also know that none of my friends have texted about a certain blonde coming back to the house, nor has Rachel's boyfriend. The longer the night drags on, the harder it is to hold onto that flicker of hope that Brittany is okay.

The fact that Quinn and Mack haven't called isn't helping.

Then Rachel's hand is on my arm.

I startle and have to stop myself from punching Rachel in the arm for scaring me. I turn towards her, my eyes narrowed in a glare, but she waves her hand towards a lanky figure propped up against one of the buildings that form the alley. Even in the dim glow of the fires, I can make out familiar blonde locks of hair and a black and white striped shirt.

Swearing under my breath, I take hurried steps towards the seemingly sleeping figure, heart hammering in my chest as I try to push away the idea that it could be Brittany.

Unfortunately, getting closer does nothing to soothe my fears. The figure is unnaturally still and I can't tell if their chest is moving or not. I kneel down in front of the lanky figure and my hand trembles as I reach out to turn the blonde head, relieved to feel warm breath on the inside of my wrist. Behind the curtain of hair is Brittany's face and, after several seconds, sleepy blue eyes open and look into mine.

I don't have to see the needle on the ground to know she used again.

"Santana," she tries to say, but her voice is thick and her tongue stumbles over the pronunciation of my name, so she settles on, "San."

"Hey," I say, unable to keep the crack out of my voice. Rachel is behind us talking on the phone, but I can't hear what she's saying. Instead, I focus on slowing my heart down now that I know Brittany is okay. She's not at home where I wish she was, but she's okay.

She shivers and looks at me with an expression that's almost child-like as she says, "Cold."

I nod and say, "I know," before I take off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders. It doesn't cover much since I'm not as tall as her, but she seems grateful for it. I move to sit beside her while we wait for Quinn, but she shakes her head and gestures for me to sit on the other side.

"I got sick," she whispers as I sit down. She burrows her face into the crook of my neck and I can feel every shaky breath against my chest. "I'm sorry," she says. "I'm really sorry, Santana."

I run my hand through her hair and press a gentle kiss against the top of her head. "I know, Brittany," I say once I pull away, closing my eyes as I try not to think about the empty needle on the ground and the vomit beside it. "I know." She goes quiet and I start to think she has fallen back asleep, but then she whispers my name and I hum in response. When she says it again, I look down to find her still pressed against my chest, but her eyes are wide open, staring at the flickering fires and the people huddled around them. "What's up?"

"Are you going to hate me now?" she asks. Before I can answer, she says, "My mom hung up on me when I called her today. I think she hates me."

"Brittany…"

She balls her hand into a fist around the hem of my shirt and says, "Sometimes I think she wishes she could trade me to get Ashley back."

"Hey." I place two fingers under her chin and force her to look up at me. "No offense to your sister, but I'm pretty fond of you."

"You don't hate me?"

I shake my head. "I don't think I'm capable of hating you," I tell her, offering a smile.

She doesn't return it. Instead, she buries her head against my chest again and says, "I wish I had met you sooner."

"Me too," I say as Rachel approaches, followed by Mack and a worried Quinn. I quickly wipe my hand over my eyes to hide any evidence of tears that may have escaped my tight control. "She's alright," I tell Quinn as she kneels in front of us. To my surprise, she wraps both of us in a hug and the tears I have been trying so hard to hold back finally fall against her shoulder.

God, when the fuck did I get so emotional?

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Alright. Again, I apologize for the long wait. Anyway, I hope the chapter was worth the wait

Title taken from **Hurt - Jonny Cash cover**


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